


wine mom but the wine is human blood

by 49percentchanceofbees



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angst, Apocalypse, Bad Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-02-07 15:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 40,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12844212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49percentchanceofbees/pseuds/49percentchanceofbees
Summary: Chrom and Robin successfully defeated Validar, but when the Hierophant awakened Grima on her own, Robin failed to resist the fell dragon’s power and became Grima’s vessel.Carrying the Parallel Falchion and the Fire Emblem, Lucina and the other Shepherds fled Grima’s Table, leaving behind Robin and a badly-wounded Chrom, both of whom they assumed to be dead. Now Risen roam the land and Grima pursues the Shepherds. But somehow the Vessel seems to have retained a little more of woman she once was this time …





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, against my will, I've ended up writing Fire Emblem fanfic for NaNoWriMo. #noregrets
> 
>  
> 
> [read on deviantart](https://argetl.deviantart.com/art/part-1-Fire-Emblem-Awakening-Grima-Robin-fic-715361651)

The last thing Chrom expected, after failing to prevent the summoning of the fell dragon Grima and collapsing from his wounds in an attempt to flee, was to wake up in a luxurious bed, next to his wife, whom he had last seen screaming for him to run and pushing him away with wind magic as the dark powers in her blood overcame her.

He woke with a start, automatically trying to jump up, but his wounds -- bandaged, half-healed -- twinged. Letting the book she was reading fall to her lap, Robin turned and gently pushed him back down. “Shhh, love, it’s all right; you’re perfectly safe.”

“What -- you’re all right!” Chrom grabbed Robin’s shoulders and pulled her into an embrace, feeling something in his chest melt with relief. She laughed softly, breath ruffling Chrom’s hair, and patted him on the back -- gingerly, so as not to jar his injuries.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, too.”

“I thought you were …” Chrom closed his eyes, buried his face in Robin’s hair. She smelled like her favorite lavender soap and, under that … under that, a sour whiff of old blood. Chrom pulled back and looked at her, trying to see if she was hurt. “Are you all right? What happened? I just remember … Did we stop Grima? Where are we?”

“So many questions.” Robin closed her book and smiled. “There’s no need to worry about Grima. We’re still at the Table. I believe this room was Validar’s, but there’s not really anyone around who can tell me if I’m right.”

Chrom looked around, suddenly very cognizant again of the urgent need to stop Grima, to fight the Grimleal, to do something. The two of them lay in a room with walls of rough stone, luxuriously appointed in contrast to its simple construction, and the symbols of the Grimleal were absolutely everywhere. Including, Chrom realized, on the cover of the book Robin had been reading, which she had pushed away in favor of regarding him closely with her endless dark eyes. Robin’s coat sat draped across the end of the bed, and Chrom could see his own cloak and clothing folded on a chair by an ornate desk of dark wood, carved with arcane symbols; but, he noticed, there were no weapons in the room, except possibly tomes. But then, perhaps they no longer needed weapons … 

“Is Lucina all right? Morgan, Lissa -- the others?”

“I think they’re all fine. I’m not quite sure where they are, actually.”

“They’re not with us?” Chrom looked at Robin, frowning. “What happened? How did we get separated?”

Robin shrugged. “They ran away, and, well, I was a bit preoccupied. Don’t worry. I’ll find them.”

Chrom sat up, more slowly this time, and swung his legs over to the edge of the bed, ready to get up. “Look, I know Lucina can take care of herself, but with the Risen out there -- ”

“The Risen won’t hurt them.” Robin scooted over, put a hand on his arm. “You should rest, Chrom. You were badly injured. Healing you was … a challenge, even for me. That is not, after all, where my talents lie.”

Chrom looked at Robin, frowning in puzzlement. As far as he knew, she had no healing ability whatsoever. “You healed me?”

“I tried.” Robin shrugged. “I managed to stabilize you, at least. Then I handed you off to the priests.”

“Lissa? Libra?”

“No, they had already run away.”

Chrom decided it was time to retake the reins of the conversation. “Robin, how did you defeat Grima? The last I saw … it didn’t look good. I -- it’s amazing that you could stop the dark dragon on your own.”

Robin looked up at Chrom and smiled, and it was the most unsettling smile he’d ever seen. “Chrom, who said I defeated him?”

Chrom felt an icy claw grip his heart and squeeze. He grabbed Robin’s arm. “You … what do you mean?”

“You don’t have to worry about Grima ever again,” Robin said, slowly, pronouncing the words with a particular deliberation, still smiling up at Chrom. There was a satisfaction in that smile that Chrom suddenly did not like at all. He tore his arm out of Robin’s grip and stood up, backing away from the bed, where she continued to sit demurely, looking more amused than distressed at his reaction.

“Did you … _what happened_ , Robin?” He backed up against the desk -- its surface felt unpleasantly sticky against his skin -- and reached for his clothes, fumbling with them without taking his eyes off of Robin. There were two doors out of this room, on opposite walls, both currently closed.

“Don’t you trust me?” Robin stood, that smile finally gone, now looking a bit sad.

“With my life,” Chrom said, automatically, calming a bit. “I just … I need to know what’s going on. How did we end up in Validar’s old bedroom, and what happened to Grima?”

“The dragon is outside, in the lands around the Table, feeding.”

Chrom’s throat locked up for a moment. “So … we failed. Grima’s here.”

“Yes, he is.” Robin did not seem distressed in the slightest by this fact.

Chrom closed his eyes. “But if he hasn’t left the Table yet, then it’s not too late. We can still stop him. With Falchion, and the Emblem …” 

“Chrom,” Robin said gently. “There will be no stopping Grima.”

When Chrom opened his eyes to look at Robin, they ached with unshed tears. “You can’t have agreed to serve Grima. You wouldn’t. Not after everything …” 

Robin smiled and shook her head. “No, silly. I’m not serving Grima. I _am_ Grima.”

A long moment’s silence. Chrom just stared. “You’re … you’re the wrong Robin. Robin from the future, from Lucina’s time. The Hierophant.”

“No. I mean, yes, I am, but no, I’m your Robin too. This is the body you’ve known all along. I am your wife.”

“I don’t understand,” said Chrom, who had a sneaking suspicion that he did not want to understand.

Robin sighed, the sound more amused than sad, and walked over to Chrom, who did not move but stood as tense as a drawn bowstring. She put her arms around him, gently, in an embrace he did not return and spoke into his shoulder, nestling her face in the curve of his neck. “You don’t need to worry about it, love. You don’t need to worry about anything ever again. This world belongs to Grima now, but you? You are mine to cherish.”

“I can’t do that, Robin. We can’t do that. Ylisse, our friends -- we have to protect them.” Chrom took Robin by the shoulders, stared into her eyes, desperately seeking a connection, understanding. “Robin, please. I know there has to be something left of you in there -- I know you wouldn’t give up. You have to fight it. You have to fight Grima. All is not lost -- Lucina still has Falchion, and the Emblem …” 

This time Robin’s sigh sounded annoyed. “Falchion, the Emblem … Is that all you can talk about? You need to move on, Chrom. You’re right on one thing, at least: there is something left of me in here. _All_ of me is in here. I am Robin and Grima; we who were two -- or three, if you count the Hierophant, though she was already just Robin and Grima -- are one. And, thus, there’s nothing to fight.”

Chrom’s gaze wandered to the desk at his side, and, particularly, a vase shaped like a chained, tortured soul. It looked heavy -- perhaps heavy enough to be deadly. He knew he was stronger than Robin, physically; he could smash her head in and hope that Grima died with her … But if the dragon were currently out there, feeding, would it really matter? Not to mention that he might be throwing away any last tiny chance to save Robin herself -- or appeal to her for help. And … 

Robin saw him looking, followed his gaze, but she made no move to stop him, just cuddled closer into his chest. “You’re not going to hurt me, Chrom. I know you’re not. I trust you.”

 _Not enough to keep fighting._ But all Chrom said was, “What about the others? Lucina, Morgan, Frederick? They’re not going to roll over and stop fighting just because you say so. They’ll stop you.”

 _Or she’ll kill them._ Chrom didn’t intend to stop fighting either, but for the moment -- it might be best to avoid giving this dark Robin ideas.

“I’m not going to hurt my own children.” She sounded sincere, rather to Chrom’s surprise. “I’ll find Lucina and Morgan -- and the baby, can’t forget about her -- and bring them here, and then we can all be a family again … or, rather, be a family for the first time, without constantly worrying about Plegia and Walhart and the Grimleal.”

_No, we’ll just have to know that Grima’s tearing the world apart beyond these walls, making the rivers run red with blood … And what, he’ll -- you’ll -- sit next to us, wearing my wife’s face and pretending everything is fine and happy, like a child playing house?_

“As for the other Shepherds, I would prefer to bring them in alive, and have them join us here, in our sanctuary. But you’re right -- they’re not going to stop fighting. They may not let themselves be taken alive.” Robin tilted her head to rest along Chrom’s breastbone, looking up at him. “Of course, you might be able to help with that. If the Shepherds surrender, as individuals or en masse, they will not be harmed. I think they might be more likely to take that generous offer if you help sell it to them.”

A bitter taste rose from the back of Chrom’s throat. She wanted him to convince the others to surrender in exchange for their lives -- so they could, what, live out the rest of their days in some sort of gilded cage, trying not to think about the devastation outside? A fate worse than death.

And yet … some part of him wanted to say yes, because however miserable that life might be, it might be easier to bear than living with the images of their broken bodies -- in his mind he saw Lucina dismembered, Morgan crushed into the dirt, Lissa’s delicate face smashed like an eggshell -- and the knowledge that it was his fault. Another part of him, very distantly, wondered if Robin had somehow made that same judgment before being subsumed by Grima, and decided that _alive_ was better than _happy_ , and if that were why he was here.

“They’ll never surrender,” he said, speaking almost as much to himself as Robin -- he needed the reminder.

“That would be unfortunate.”

Chrom pushed her away, and she stepped back without protest, still watching him sharply -- she’d been watching him sharply the entire time, some alien and malevolent intelligence hiding behind that familiar gaze. “So, what? You’ll kill them for refusing to bow to you? And what about the rest of the world? Ylisse, Regna Ferox -- you rule Ylisse as much as I do; you have a sworn duty to protect and care for its people! Are you just going to kill everyone, Robin?”

He needed to stop calling her by that name, because this creature clearly was not Robin anymore, whatever she might claim.

She smiled slightly. “As I said, I will take the Shepherds alive if possible. They are my friends. And I understand the value of family; Lucina and Morgan will be safe, however they resist, and Lissa as well, I suppose. As for the rest of the world, well … I hunger, Chrom. I am so hungry. So long have humans scurried across this world that was always meant to be mine … ”

Chrom looked at Robin, at Grima, in horror. Something in him knew that he ought to take up the vase and kill her right in that moment, that he was a fool for letting a beloved face and voice trick him into compliance, that thousands of his subjects -- and complete strangers -- would pay the ultimate price for his hesitation. But he couldn’t … 

Grima read his intentions and his doubts in his face and laughed softly. “Chrom, this body is simply one extension of a being greater and more powerful than your mortal mind can comprehend. You can’t kill me. You can annoy me, but trust me, you don’t want to do that. Now sit down, love, before you fall over; if you’re good, I’ll even put a little extra effort into sparing your friends.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” Robin-Grima’s singsong voice set Chrom’s teeth on edge. He thought it had been three days, but it was hard to be sure, as the room had no windows, and he had not been allowed to leave. The doors stayed locked, except when silent, soulless Risen brought him food, or when Grima was there, tormenting him with a twisted version of affection: simpering, saccharine, a mockery of the relationship he’d had with Robin. Chrom had tried to escape, once, only to be dragged back by the inhuman strength of the Risen -- completely unharmed and unpunished for the attempt, which was almost worse than if they’d beaten him into submission. It had taken him a while to realize why it bothered him, but finally it hit him: it was as if they didn’t care if he did it again, because it neither threatened nor even inconvenienced them. And, of course, it was Grima who really didn’t care; the Risen could feel nothing. “I think you’ll like it!”

“I doubt it.” Chrom tried not to react to Grima’s teasing, tried to avoid even looking at her -- he’d realized that she enjoyed his attention, however negative it might be; probably the sadistic pleasure of watching him suffer was the only reason she kept him alive. But his heart still leapt into his throat at the break in routine: it had to mean that something important had happened, and that he might actually get some news from the world outside, have some idea how Lucina and the other Shepherds fared, even if he had to sieve the truth from Grima’s lies. It certainly wasn’t good news, if Grima was crowing about it, but he’d rather know than be left in ignorance.

The face that had once belonged to Robin assumed an exaggerated pout. “It can wait, if you’re not in the mood.”

“No.” Against his will, Chrom sounded eager, and his throat burned with hatred and shame. _She’s going to make me beg …_ “We could be visiting a charnel house and I’d still be glad to get out of this damn room.”

He regretted that as soon as he said it, because he was sure they _could_ be visiting a charnel house; the entire world would be one soon, with Grima left unchecked. But the frown on Robin’s face was marginally more sincere this time.

“I’m sorry, love. I’ve been busy, as I’m sure you can imagine, but you’re right: being cooped up in here can’t be fun. I’ll make sure you have a chance to get some fresh air soon. Maybe we can even go flying.”

_Like I’m a dog …_ It took Chrom a moment to realize the potential significance of that last word. “Flying?”

Grima grinned and took his arm, leaning into his shoulder. “What’s the point of having six wings if you don’t use them?”

_The dragon. She’s talking about the fell dragon._ He’d watched Grima wear his wife’s face for so long now that the sight of the massive beast roaring in the clouds had almost faded from his mind, but now the memory clawed at his stomach. It wasn’t that he feared for his safety, facing the thing -- he doubted he’d be in any more danger standing next to the monster in open air than he was here, standing next to a prettier version of the monster in the depths of its lair. But its image was just so viscerally wrong … And of course the thought served as a reminder, as if he’d needed any, that the thing was out there wreaking havoc on the world right now.

Chrom realized that he was holding Robin’s shoulder -- _Grima’s_ shoulder -- tightly, pulling her close, and she was smiling, clearly quite pleased with the unconscious display of affection. He pushed her away, glaring, fists clenched. “Whatever you have to show me, let’s just get it over with.”

“Of course, my love. Follow me.” Grima practically skipped out of the room, the door swinging open untouched before her: following her, Chrom saw a pair of Risen on the other side facilitating this trick. Their red eyes bored into him, and they fell in behind him after he passed.

Chrom did his best to memorize their route, the layout of halls and stairs they took, but he quickly got lost. He hadn’t realized that Grima’s Table had this extensive an interior, let alone that it was such a maze. All he could really tell was that the general direction was upward, perhaps outward: away from the center of the edifice. But they did travel quite a ways, so far that Chrom started to hope that maybe they were actually going to go outside. He probably wouldn’t be able to escape even without the Table’s walls to confine him -- not unarmed and unsupplied, with the Risen watching him tirelessly, ready to dog his steps until he collapsed; and that was a best-case scenario, one that assumed no mounted Risen and no intervention from the great dragon Grima himself. But just seeing sunlight again would be a welcome change.

He knew exactly when they’d reached their destination, because it was the only place he’d seen that was guarded. Robin-Grima walked past the Risen standing in the corridor without glancing at them, and they made no attempt at posturing or even looking impressive, as human guards might. Chrom could feel the cold shadows roiling off their skin as he walked past them. They didn’t scare him; he’d fought and killed enough of these things over the last few years that familiarity had bled all the raw horror of their existence away. But he still didn’t like looking at them.

And why were there guards? For the thousandth time, Chrom wished Robin were here with him -- the real Robin, not the cheerful puppet prancing along in front of him. Robin could look at the guards and know what they _meant_ , what motivated their enemies to put guards here instead of elsewhere. She’d be able to glance at their weapons, their armor, and spot vulnerabilities; she’d know what to do. Without her, Chrom was left with only a pit of useless, directionless urgency in his stomach: his entire being screaming to _do something_ but with no idea what action to take.

They walked past another pair of guards, into a larger chamber, and Grima stepped aside to present Chrom with a scene that drove such thoughts from his mind. Against the chamber’s back wall sat a cot, and on that cot sat Cordelia, heavily bandaged, resisting the ministrations of the Risen cleric trying to offer her a vulnerary. She looked up as they entered, and her face lit up on seeing them; she tried to stand and failed, falling back onto the cot. “Chrom! Robin! You’re alive! We all thought you were dead!”

“Cordelia …” Chrom would have liked to be ecstatic to see her, but under the circumstances. “Are you all right? Are the others … ?”

Cordelia’s face fell, and she moved her arm abortively, as if to hide it, which was when Chrom realized that her right arm was missing below the elbow, a neat bandage capping the stump. “I’m … I’ll live. But Severa is dead. She died trying to fight free of the Risen. Because she wouldn’t let them take me, and she wouldn’t leave me … ”

Severa: Chrom hadn’t known Cordelia’s daughter very well, but he could still see her in his mind’s eye, standing against the horde with all her mother’s skill and determination, her tongue as sharp as her sword.

“She never thought she was as good as I was,” Cordelia added, her voice hollow. “But in the end she kept fighting when I was too weak to continue. Quite the survivor, aren’t I?”

Chrom went to Cordelia and sat next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder; she leaned into him and he politely pretended not to see the tears on her face. Instead, he looked at Grima, fury burning in his chest. For once the grinning marionette that had once been his wife and best friend looked solemn.

“They told her to stand down,” Grima said quietly. “She did not allow herself to be brought in alive.”

Cordelia looked up sharply. “She refused to surrender to evil; speaking of which, what’s going on? Why did the Risen bring me here? What do they want with us, Robin?”

“That’s not Robin,” Chrom said softly.

Cordelia knew about the Hierophant too. Her face hardened, and her body shifted next to Chrom: even _literally_ unarmed, she was ready to fight. “I see. Then why are we still alive?”

“Because I am Robin, and you’re my friends.” The sad, slightly wounded expression on that face was almost believable.

“Your _pets_ killed my daughter,” Cordelia spat. She tried to get to her feet again, and this time Chrom helped her, supporting her. “They burned a village to draw us out. Morgan thought it was a trap, and Severa didn’t want to go, but I said we should, because we had to find small ways to help as well as defeating Grima on the large scale. Because it might not make a difference to the course of the war, but it would make a difference to the villagers. So Severa agreed to come. Now she’s dead.”

“How is Morgan?” Grima asked, now impassive rather than sad. “He’s taken over my position as the Shepherds’ tactician, I imagine. I thought I recognized his work. He’s quite talented, but he still has a lot to learn.”

Cordelia stared at Grima, livid. Then she turned to Chrom. “I’m not telling them anything. But Lucina and Morgan are all right. They’re … working on something. They haven’t given up. Everyone else was all right last time I saw them too -- Lissa, Frederick, Kellam, all of the Shepherds. I don’t know where all of them are, but they … they’re alive.”

Chrom’s heart twisted to see Cordelia, in such dire straits, trying to reassure him and cheer him up. He rubbed her back, realizing only after he did it that he was not completely certain that she might not appreciate such familiarity, but she closed her eyes, appearing comforted. Grima watched with a slightly sour expression. Jealousy? Robin had never cared how friendly he was with other women; she’d called it sad, to feel so insecure in your partner’s affections as to interpret friends as threats.

“So what now?” Cordelia said, after a moment of silence, opening her eyes to look at Grima. “Now do you torture me for information on their plans? I won’t give you anything.”

Chrom tensed, putting a protective arm around Cordelia, turning slightly to try and place himself between her and Grima, although he realized as he did so that there were Risen behind them, too. “You said any of the Shepherds who surrendered wouldn’t be harmed.”

“She didn’t surrender, and you _would_ give me everything, in time.” Grima sighed and shook her head. “But no. I’m not going to torture you. I don’t need the information. There’s nothing they can do to stop me.”

Cordelia actually managed a sneering laugh. “Gangrel, Walhart -- they all thought that, and yet we’ve stopped them all. We’ll defeat you too.”

Grima smiled cruelly and moved forward, and Chrom tried to step between her and Cordelia but Cordelia pushed him away, with surprising strength for a woman who could barely stand and lacked half an arm. She wobbled, without his support, and then Grima caught her by the shoulders, cupped her face. “Cordelia, my sweet … They were men. Foolish, tiny, fragile men. I am Grima. I need no other boast.”

Cordelia spat, aiming for Grima’s face, but at the twitch of a finger, a burst of dark magic burned the saliva away in the air. Grima released Cordelia, pushing her away; the Risen cleric behind her caught her.

“How ill-bred,” Grima said, contemptuous. “I expected better of you, Cordelia. Chrom?”

It took Chrom a moment to parse the imperious tone and realize that she meant for him to follow her, and in that moment, she’d already marched halfway to the door. Chrom glanced at Cordelia, whose gaze shifted from him to Grima to the Risen. She didn’t look afraid, but then, she never did.

“I’m not leaving,” Chrom said. He strongly suspected that if he walked out of the room with Grima now, he’d never see Cordelia again -- and not because she had managed to escape from this godsforsaken place.

“Cordelia needs to rest so that she can heal.” Grima’s voice carried a definite note of menace -- though, considering the source, everything she said sounded menacing.

“I won’t bother her,” Chrom said, with some irony, considering the situation.

From the way Cordelia watched him, he half-expected her to reassure them that it was fine, that he should just go rather than risk angering their forced host, but instead she said, firmly, “I’d like him to stay.”

He should’ve realized: she had no more intention of knuckling under to Grima than he did. It might not be the safest course of action, but they were Shepherds: their mission was to protect Ylisse, not stay safe. Frederick or Miriel, or the _real_ Robin, might have argued that they better served Ylisse by staying alive and well until an opportunity arose to upset Grima’s plans from within -- or even by winning their captor’s trust through obedience -- but, well, Chrom would help no one if he went mad.

Grima was still for a moment, clearly thinking the matter over, weighing what methods of coercion to use. Chrom was almost inclined to believe her claims that she wouldn’t hurt him, at least physically, but there were enough Risen present to bodily drag him from the room; and, of course, she’d already specified that such promises did not apply to Cordelia. He might not care what they did to him, but if Cordelia suffered further over such a point of pride -- even if it was what she wanted, if she wished to stand up to Grima, he was still her commander and therefore responsible for her wellbeing.

Finally, Grima shrugged. “As you wish. I’ll leave you two alone to catch up, then. The Risen will bring you back to your room later.”

With that, she swept out of the room, leaving Chrom and Cordelia blinking after her.

“I didn’t think that’d really work,” Cordelia admitted.

“Neither did I.” Again, Chrom missed Robin’s advice so strongly that the sensation was almost physical. She’d be able to figure out Grima’s motives and intentions, if any mortal mind could.

Silence fell between Chrom and Cordelia, broken only by the soft clanking and moaning of the Risen. They both knew better than to assume that Grima’s departure meant they could speak freely: the Risen might not be able to speak, or even comprehend speech, but Chrom didn’t doubt they had ways to pass anything they heard on to their master.

“Lucina can do it,” Cordelia said at last. “She’ll defeat Grima. We just have to keep an eye out for any way we can help her.”

“Of course,” Chrom said, sincerely. “Which means Grima was right about one thing: you really should rest and heal. But I’ll watch over you.”  



	3. Chapter 3

    Hours later, long after Cordelia had fallen into an exhausted sleep, a nearly equally tired Chrom finally allowed the Risen to escort him back to his own chamber. He hadn’t fully anticipated how long the walk was, or how many stairs were involved, or realized that he still was not up to his usual strength, and by the time they reached the room the Risen were half-carrying him, which was how he did not notice Grima lounging on the bed till he had already collapsed into it. When he did, though, he wasn’t surprised. Of course she’d show up to torment him when he was too drained to put up much of a fight. With a sense of resignation, he twisted his neck to look at her and saw her simply watching him with a coldly measuring expression, over the top of a book she’d been reading.

    Too tired for caution, he let his head droop into the silk pillow and said only, “Turn out the light, please. I’m going to sleep.”

    He heard Grima put the book aside, though not stir from the bed, and then the room was dark. Magic -- so convenient. Then he heard Grima moving, shifting, although the mattress was too expensive to do anything so pedestrian as _creak_. For a moment the image of Validar arranging the delivery of a down mattress to this gloomy ruin in the middle of nowhere almost made Chrom laugh, before he had the sobering thought that he had probably used Risen as laborers.

    Even without looking, even in the dark, Chrom could’ve sworn that he could sense Grima watching him. Though she didn’t touch him, he could feel the warmth of her body -- what had once been _Robin’s_ body -- on his skin, the way her weight pulled at the mattress and linens.

    He wasn’t sure, however, by the time he woke up, whether she had actually whispered, “I’m sorry,” there in the dark, or if he’d just imagined it.

    What he did know was that he woke up with Robin-Grima curled up against his chest, her face tucked into the curve of his neck, her coat thrown over both of them. The position was familiar -- they’d huddled together like this in many a military camp, with no better protection from the cold than makeshift blankets and each other -- and thus for an indeterminable amount of half-asleep time, Chrom simply accepted this, even shifted a little closer to her. Then, eventually, the knowledge of recent events floated to the surface of his mind. Suddenly very awake, he started to pull away, but Grima pulled him closer, her grip rather stronger than Robin’s had ever been. Previously she’d let him go when he’d rejected her, or Grima’s, notably ostentatious affection …

    “Don’t.” A sleepy murmur. Did Grima sleep? And what might emerge when he did?

    “Robin?” Chrom said, quietly, cursing himself for a fool the whole time. “Is that -- are you really you?”

    _And not Grima_ , he would have said, but he was half-afraid that the fell dragon’s name would summon him, would remind this body who it really belonged to now.

    “It’s been me all along.” She sounded more awake now, and Chrom’s heart sank. “Chrom, I never … I don’t want to hurt you, or any of our friends. The world is burning, Chrom. They won’t be safe until they’re here, with me.”

    “Didn’t Walhart say something similar? Something about bringing order to the world?” Chrom wasn’t sure if there was any chance of reasoning her, but gods, he didn’t exactly have a lot of other options.

    “That was Walhart. This is _me_.” Some of Grima’s annoyance started to creep into her voice. “If you would all just trust me, just stand down, no one else would have to get hurt!”

    “No one we know.” Chrom shifted slightly, opening up a little space between them, and this time the woman beside him made no attempt to stop him, though she did lean towards him as if pulled by a magnet. “It’s not just ‘The world is burning,’ Robin, as if the land’s just combusting all by itself. Someone’s _doing_ it. _Grima’s_ doing it. He can be stopped. He has to be stopped. We can stop him.”

    “You can’t stop me.” In the accompanying cold, malevolent laugh, Chrom could see the cruel, arrogant smile that Grima liked to plaster across Robin’s face in his mind’s eye, even though it was still dark. Damn. It sounded like he’d woken the dragon. A delicate, deliberate hand ran along his back, tracing his spine, exploring the hem of his shirt.

    “Robin. Robin, please, stay with me.” He pulled her closer again, as if perhaps contact with his chest was the magic trick that brought something of his wife back from this monster.

    “I’m with you. I’m always with you. _Forever_.” The emphasis on that last word was almost sinister -- no, it was definitely sinister. “I won’t let anything happen to you ever again … Or Lucina, or Morgan … You’ll all be safe here with me.”

    “Robin,” Chrom said, gently, “you know us. You know that none of us can just sit here and watch while the world burns around us.”

    “Then you don’t have to watch.” This delivered with the sleepy certainty of a child asking if they couldn’t just slow down the sun to let her sleep for another five minutes.

    “We’ll know, Robin. Please. Please, Robin. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

    “I want to hurt everyone.” Her voice was still drowsy, vague, but absolutely certain. “I want to hurt everyone very badly. Their suffering feels so good. Chrom, I’m so hungry. It’s remarkable. I thought I knew hunger before, but nothing like this. I just want to consume everything.”

    “We can get you help, Robin.” Desperation crept into his voice on that name: he was overusing it, trying to remind her who she really was. _If_ that was who she really was anymore. “There has to be something we can do, some way to free you.”

    She moved suddenly, propping herself up on her elbow, and laughed. “Free me? I’m free. I’m so free; I’m freer than I’ve ever been. I can do whatever I want, and no one can stop me or hurt me. What freedom’s greater than that?”

    Chrom couldn’t think of anything to say to that, but it didn’t matter, because she went on in a tone he recognized as distinctly Grima -- cruel, dark, full of sadistic enthusiasm. “I’ve been sleeping for so long. This world has forgotten how to fear me. And without fear of wolves, the sheep grow so fat and lazy … No Shepherd wants that.”

    “That’s literally the entire point of having Shepherds. I think you’re mixing your metaphors.”

    A sigh. “Well, they can’t all be winners.”

    Chrom almost, _almost_ laughed. Somehow for a second it had been as if he and Robin were at home in Ylisstol, chatting and joking with each other, and none of this had ever happened … but Grima dispelled that quickly.

    “I can bring her back, you know.”

    “What?”

    “Severa.” Grima settled back down in the bed beside Chrom. “I have the body. I can bring her back as Risen. I can’t say she’ll be as charming a conversationalist as she was in life, or quite as pretty, but she’ll still walk around and hit things, so what’s the difference, really?”

    Chrom stared into the dark, at where he thought Grima’s face was, though it didn’t really matter. What a horrid question. To have a loved one come back as such a twisted, dark version of themself, speaking in tortured moans, bent to the will of your enemies … Well, Chrom imagined it was actually rather similar to how he felt right now, listening to such a proposal in Robin’s voice. He wondered if it would be better or worse, to be absolutely certain that nothing of his wife was left in there, that he was looking at only a hollow shell, a walking corpse. At the moment he thought he would’ve preferred that.

    “It’s up to you, though,” Grima said. “It’s not too difficult, but I’ll admit the Risen aren’t exactly great company.”

    Chrom opened his mouth to refuse with all the disgust the idea engendered, and then another thought occurred to him: “Why are you asking me? Severa was Cordelia’s daughter. It should be her choice.”

    He felt completely certain that Cordelia would refuse -- in fact, perhaps it was best that Grima had asked him, to save Cordelia the distress of even facing such a horrific possibility, even refusing such an insensitive offer. She had enough grief to live with already, without Grima taunting her like this.

    “I don’t really care what she wants,” Grima admitted with a frankness that was almost refreshing. “I really just care about you. I’d rip all the Shepherds apart in an instant if it’d make you happy.”

    “How could you think that killing my friends would make me happy?” Chrom sat up, started to get out of bed.

    Grima put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t. It was just an example.”

    Chrom paused. “If you really want to make me happy, you should leave them alone.”

    “That _would_ be killing them all.” Grima chuckled. “You may not have noticed, but our friends have a certain penchant for putting themselves in harm’s way. They’re going to fight the Risen whether I target them or not. I can’t allow that to go unnoticed, however futile their resistance may be. But if you’re not interested in bringing them here, I can stop trying to take them alive. Except for Lucina and Morgan, of course. Or you can give me a list, of who you want to save.”

    In that moment, Chrom hated Grima-Robin with an all-enveloping intensity. He’d hated other people like that -- Mad King Gangrel leapt to mind, laughing as Emmeryn fell in an almost-graceful arc Chrom could still see perfectly years later, and then made that utterly ungraceful landing. The Plegian ruler had profaned the very moment of her death with his foul cackling. But this was worse, because he’d never really had a reason to expect any better of Gangrel. He’d never wished Chrom and Ylisse anything but ill, so it hadn’t exactly been a betrayal. But this was _Robin_ …

    _No. It’s not her. It’s_ not _her. It’s Grima_ . He had to hold onto that thought, because if he accepted that it was actually Robin doing this … he didn’t think he could take it. This wasn’t Robin. This was the creature who’d _killed_ Robin.

    “I’ll take that as a ‘no, please don’t leave my friends to the Risen’s tender mercies,’ then,” Grima said, sounding simultaneously impatient and smug. “No need to thank me, love.”

    “I’m never going to thank you,” Chrom said, automatically, and Grima laughed.

    “Never say never … After all, we have all the time in the world.” Grima wrapped her arms around Chrom, pressing her face into the back of his neck. “I love you.”

    Chrom pulled himself away violently, automatically; suddenly there were tears on his face. Out of all the things Robin-Grima had said, somehow that was the worst. On his feet now -- Grima had let him go -- he stumbled in the dark away from the bed, into a piece of furniture. Felt like a couch. He grabbed it for support and tried to control his breathing, because the last thing he wanted to do was give Grima the satisfaction of hearing him cry.  
    Soft footsteps approached, bare feet on the stone floor. Chrom’s fingers tightened on the back of the couch until he felt sure the fabric would split. If Grima touched him again, he was going to punch her into next week, Robin-body or no Robin-body, and damn the consequences. At this point he might consider himself lucky if Grima decided that she didn’t like him anymore -- if she _got bored_ with him -- and just killed him.

    She didn’t touch him. After a long, long moment, the footsteps moved away. Chrom heard the door open, though the room stayed pitch-black (Robin would have noted this as evidence that Grima could see in the dark, but he wasn’t Robin).

    “You should try to get some more sleep,” Grima said, from the general direction of the doorway. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

    “No I won’t!” Chrom cried, enraged, but the only response he got was the sound of the door closing. With Grima gone -- or so he assumed, too upset to realize that it would have been child’s play for her to linger silently on this side of the door -- he stopped trying to resist the sobs rising in his chest; he slowly collapsed over the back of the couch. This -- it was unbearable. And yet he had no choice but to bear it. For a brief moment he considered ending his own life, but quickly dismissed the idea as both impractical and cowardly. He doubted Grima would allow him to do such a thing, and he had faith in Lucina; he really did believe that she would find a way to defeat Grima, and when she did, he would not make her mourn him again.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite having a thousand things to occupy her time, Lucina found herself staring at her own reflection in the steel bowl that currently served her as a washbasin, with the Shepherds on the road. It wasn’t vanity that prompted the pause; in fact, she barely saw her own image. She was simply so exhausted, mentally and physically strained … 

Ever since Grima’s awakening, Risen had poured forth from Plegia, far too many for the combined armies of Ylisse and Regna Ferox to push back -- not when an axe wound served as merely an inconvenience to the undead, but killed their own soldiers; and not when those dead soldiers kept rising up to join the enemy’s ranks. The Shepherds had done their best to slow the dark forces’ inevitable advance, but they were only a small group, and growing smaller by the day: Cordelia and Severa were missing, presumed dead, and now Lucina had lost contact with Say'ri, Lon’qu, and Inigo. The Risen displayed more strategic intelligence than ever before, clearly influenced by some greater force --  _ Grima _ \-- and while their advance covered most of the country, their primary goal was clear: Ylisstol.

None of this came as a surprise to Lucina. She’d seen it all before, when she was younger, in her original timeline. Everything she’d done, years of battle and effort, and events still unfolded the same way … It was this knowledge, more than the actual circumstances, that weighed on Lucina. They could keep fighting; Morgan, in particular, was full of ideas, not to mention holding up remarkably well for someone who had just been orphaned for the second time. But Lucina couldn’t take it. If Chrom and Robin hadn’t been able to stop Grima, even with her own help, the foreknowledge she’d brought … Lucina knew in her heart that she could not succeed where her father had failed. Not without him.

No longer able to bear her own image, she poured out the bowl in a quick, violent motion. Chrom was dead. Again. In the end all the blood and pain she’d spent to get here -- it hadn’t mattered.  _ You can’t challenge fate _ . And fate would see Lucina an orphan, mourning in a broken world … 

A rap on a wooden tent pole alerted Lucina that someone was here to see her. Quickly, she composed herself. No matter what despair she might feel, she had to put on a brave face for the rest of the Shepherds, to keep them from giving up … though she wasn’t sure they wouldn’t be better off if they did, and scattered to the four winds to hide. It was the need to maintain this facade, to pretend that she still held any hope, that wore on her almost more than the actual circumstances. “Come in.”

The flap pushed aside: it was Morgan. Lucina felt relief, because she didn’t need to pretend to be _ quite _ as optimistic for her brother as she did for the rest of the Shepherds, not when he’d also effectively become their tactician, taking their mother’s place as Lucina had taken their father’s. “Morgan. Do you have any news?”

“I noticed something odd.” Wasting little time, Morgan stepped up to the rather rickety table that held Lucina’s maps and notes, an attempt to summarize the war at hand. “I don’t remember much of the other timeline, but you said Grima himself, the dragon, hit Ylisse hard, right? Razing cities, burning forests …” 

“Yes.” Lucina closed her eyes. The images behind them weren’t any she wanted to relive.

But Morgan didn’t seem to notice her distress; when she looked again, he was poring over the maps. “Well, for some reason, that’s not happening this time. We’ve barely seen Grima at all, and as far as we can tell, when he has attacked, it’s been far behind the Risen front line, in areas they’ve already devastated. Actually, I did get a couple of reports of Grima striking in Chon’sin, in Valm -- but never here, in Ylisse, where the people actively trying to fight him are. That’s a long way to travel to  _ avoid _ the people you’re supposedly hunting.”

Lucina frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. But the Risen’s strategy is odd, too. Not stupid, or shortsighted, but  _ odd _ . They don’t know exactly where we are, but they have the strength to force a head-on confrontation; it would be more efficient, a much quicker way to deal with us. But instead they keep trying to split us up, to lure us off in small groups and pick us off … they’re not fighting how I would expect a near-mindless force of undead destruction to fight, or even a  _ mindful _ force of undead destruction. It’s like they have some other goal … And they keep pushing for Ylisstol, even though they have to know we’re not there.”

The Shepherds were now north of Ylisstol, heading east, in the hope that Lucina could awaken Naga on Mount Prism. The idea rather terrified her, but it was their best and only hope, and she’d be willing to risk far more to stop Grima -- in fact, she already had.

“It’s the capital. If they take it, Ylisse will be devastated …” Lucina spoke from personal experience.

“Ylisse is already devastated,” Morgan said, with an almost callous matter-of-factness. “With the current state of things, there’s not much of strategic value there. Of course, it’s a well-populated city, but they’ve made no particular push towards other major population centers. Perhaps it’s the symbolic value they’re looking at, taking our seat of government as a sign that we can no longer resist …” 

Morgan hummed to himself, looking over the maps. “None of their behavior is inexplicable, just … a bit off. And if they didn’t do this in the other timeline, well, I’d like to know what’s changed. What factor is different in this time, to cause Grima to act differently?”

“Grima’s a monster,” Lucina said. “I’m not sure you can analyze his motives the way you would with a human commander.”

“Mm, I guess.” Morgan shrugged, flipping through a couple reports. “It’s just -- there’s not really anything solid I can point to, but my instincts tell me there’s something else going on here.”

“What else could possibly be going on?”

“If I had any idea, I would’ve already told you. Hmm … what do they want in Ylisstol …” Morgan was speaking more to himself now than to Lucina, but as the words sunk in, Lucina realized that she knew the answer.

“Me. It’s me.”

Morgan looked up, frowning. “You’re not in Ylisstol. You’re here.”

“Not  _ me _ me, the baby! My younger self.” Lucina leapt to the other side of the table to get a good look at the map. She’d almost forgotten that there was another  _ her _ out there in the world, which made sense, seeing how the other Lucina could not yet walk or speak. “Gods, how could we be so stupid? We left the baby in Ylisstol -- we should’ve brought her with us, or sent her somewhere safe!”

“It’s not like you’ll pop out of existence if they kill this timeline’s younger, native version of you … right?” From the worry in Morgan’s tone, he was not at all sure of this fact.

“I don’t know, but I’m not sure it matters.” Running her hands over her face, Lucina rubbed her eyes, too tired and horrified to really figure out what this development meant. Besides, that was Morgan’s department, anyway. “We have to return to Ylisstol and get the baby. I know Mother and Father left her with a nurse, but I’m not sure exactly … she’ll be at the palace, I suppose.”

“Unless the nurse has gotten scared and fled the city -- a lot of people have. You don’t have to be a master tactician to realize that the Risen are headed there.” Morgan picked up a ruler, started making measurements on the map. “Lucina, slow down. It could be a trap -- maybe this is exactly what they want us to think, and the aim is more to get us to rush to her defense than to actually find the baby.”

Lucina shook her head. “Does it matter? If it’s  _ not _ a trap, they kill her. If it is a trap, they’ll still kill her if she doesn’t work as bait.”

_ Mother and Father wouldn’t have forgotten something so important. They would’ve brought the baby with us _ . The feelings of inadequacy crashing over Lucina were hardly new -- even though they had failed in the timeline she came from, she couldn’t help but think, almost constantly, that Chrom and Robin would’ve found some better way to handle the situation than she and Morgan did. It wasn’t an entirely unfounded thought. In the timeline Lucina had come from, it had taken much longer for Grima to rise, to kill Chrom, to raze Ylisse -- time in which she had grown up, her friends had been born … Now it was all happening much faster, much sooner, and Lucina couldn’t help but think that  _ that _ was her contribution to this timeline. She’d come here to stop Grima and all she’d done was accelerate his victory.

Morgan looked at the map, tapping a finger against his lips in an unintentionally cruel, likely unconscious imitation of Robin. “I think … I think we have to split up.”

“Didn’t you say the Risen were trying to divide us, pick us off?”

“I did, and they are, but … We have two goals here. We have to get the baby, but we have to get you to Mount Prism -- and both those things are time-sensitive. Everything is, really, because we can’t hide from Grima forever. This isn’t a war we can win on the defensive. So we need those goals to be accomplished  _ simultaneously _ , which means we have to divide our forces.” Morgan picked up another piece of paper: the Shepherds’ roster. “You have to go to Mount Prism, because you’re the exalt now -- only you can wake Naga.”

“You have royal blood too -- you, and Aunt Lissa, and Owain.”

“I don’t intend to wield Falchion … but Owain should definitely accompany you. He may be able to take up the blade if you fall.” The last bit was matter-of-fact, emotionless: Morgan was too occupied with strategy to attach any personal weight to the idea of his sister and commander dying in battle. Lucina almost appreciated the frankness. “Frederick should be among those who go to Ylisstol -- as a royal retainer, he knows the palace and staff better than anyone. Who else? And where do  _ I _ go? Both groups will need a strategist …”

“We haven’t yet decided that we are going to split up,” Lucina reminded him.

“I don’t think we have a lot of other options. Do we  _ know _ , for sure, whether baby Lucina’s death will wipe you from existence? No? That just makes the matter more urgent, then.”

Lucina could tell now that she had lost Morgan to his plans, his strategies, the maps and predictions superseding the current moment in his mind. And she couldn’t say he was wrong. They had to save her child-self, but they also had to perform the Awakening … If they were quick enough with the latter, perhaps the former would not be an issue, but they couldn’t count on that. Or could they? Would it be better to gamble everything on waking Naga before Grima could find and kill baby Lucina?

Chrom could have made that determination. Robin could have made that determination. But Lucina? She was lost. Morgan thought not; he thought they should split up, and he had been their mother’s loyal student. But he did still miss things sometimes … Lucina closed her eyes, trying to conjure up an image of her father that could advise her.

A memory came to mind: standing in a field with Robin, Lucina trying to kill her own mother to prevent precisely this future from coming to pass. (Not, in the end, that it would’ve made much difference if she had, with her own timeline’s Robin, or rather Grima, out there, needing only a laden Table to rise.) Robin had accepted the necessity of her own death. Lucina saw her face: she’d closed her eyes, her face heavy with sorrow, but at peace. Somewhere in her analytical mind she’d known this was the best plan. But Chrom … he’d refused to give up on Robin, on his  _ family _ , even if it wasn’t the best strategic move.

_ And look where that got him _ . Twice now Chrom had fallen because he trusted his wife despite her corrupted blood. Perhaps his was not the example Lucina should seek to follow. And, of course, now she knew that she and Morgan shared that blood … 

Lucina opened her eyes, finding that she’d made a decision. “We can’t order anyone to go back towards Ylisstol. The Risen will be swarming the area soon enough. But we’ll ask for volunteers.”

“Frederick will go,” Morgan said. “And I think it might be best for me to go, as well -- your path to Mount Prism should be clearer, and that group will have you to guide them, while the others need a leader. But … it should be up to you, I think, whether you want me by your side.”

Gods, the last thing Lucina needed was another life-and-death decision to make. Was it selfish to want to keep Morgan with her, because she needed his counsel, his support? Or was that, in fact, the wiser choice, to give them the best chance of defeating Grima?

“Let’s talk to the others first and get a better idea of who’s going where.” Lucina saw Morgan glance at her; he knew very well that she was putting off the decision, and precisely how little that would actually help. But he didn’t protest, just started gathering up some notes.

“I’ll call the troops together.” He picked up a map, paused. “Would you like to tell them or should I? I think you’re better at talking to them. You inspire people … they tend to just laugh at me.”

“Why would they … ?” But Morgan just shook his head, and Lucina, cravenly, decided she had too much on her plate to pursue the subject. “I’ll talk to them.”

_ It’s the least I can do, since it’s my oversight they’re correcting -- and my life at stake _ .  _ And I won’t be there to help them. And I’m the one who failed to prevent this, even with all my foreknowledge. _

_ I knew I should have killed her when I had the chance. _


	5. Chapter 5

“Father! Have you seen this?” 

“Hm?” Gaius looked up to find his son brandishing a piece of paper at him as if it were a weapon. Which, in the hands of a mage, it might well have been, but that was not Owain’s inclination. “I’ve seen a lot of papers in my life, but that one specifically? Probably not.”

“Father! This is no laughing matter!” Owain scowled

“Can’t determine that till you calm down and stop waving it around for long enough for me to read it.” Gaius took the paper from Owain, prompting some muttering about “offending my deadly sword hand” that he ignored. It was a rather crudely-printed missive, but Gaius quickly recognize the seal of the Grimleal, and rough sketches of Lucina and Morgan. It took him a moment longer to read the thing. “Huh.”

"Is that all you can say? 'Huh'?"

"It's a start." There was, of course, currently a sweet in Gaius' mouth: a lollipop. He shifted it around and chewed on the stick a little. "Why'd you bring this to me? Seems like something Lucina should know about."

It was a message from Grima, and it demanded that the Shepherds surrender. Actually, it both appealed directly to the Shepherds to surrender, promising that any who did would not be harmed, and extended an offer to the rest of Ylisse and surrounding environs: Anyone who helped capture the Shepherds would receive rewards beyond their wildest dreams. Gaius imagined the most significant of those rewards would be surviving the coming apocalypse.

"I'm going to tell her right now. I just -- I don't know. I saw you here and thought -- never mind."

"Well, I appreciate the warning, at least." Gaius handed the flyer back to Owain. "Looks like soon we'll have half the country on our tails."

"Surely the noble people of Ylisse would not prove so mercenary!" Owain declared.

"Someone ask for mercenary?" Gregor peered over Owain's shoulder, making the boy jump.

"Nah, we were just -- oh, cripes."

"You called me?" said Nah. Of course the young manakete had appeared at the sound of her name -- even if it wasn't intended to be her name at all.

Gaius sighed. There was no hiding anything among the Shepherds -- gossip simply traveled too fast through their camp. "It's a message from Grima. I'd imagine they're distributing them all over -- right, Owain?"

Owain nodded. "The foul words of the deceiver blanket the land like poison snow -- no, like ash ..."

"Grima wants us to surrender. Says if we do, we won't be hurt. And he's recruiting the rest of the world against us as well -- anybody who turns us in will get to live and thrive or whatever." Gaius kicked his feet up onto the table in front of him. "So, we can expect our brigand problems to double, on top of everything else."

"Better that those with evil hearts should come after us, anyway, than prey on the innocent and helpless!" Owain declared.

"You might change your mind when you're sandwiched between angry raiders and hungry Risen," Gaius commented. Then he stood. "I'd better go. Have to get ready to head south."

Gaius had joined the group traveling south to Ylisstol, the thinking being that he had snuck into the palace once and therefore had a better chance of doing it again. They were trying to be inconspicuous, avoid drawing the enemy's attention -- and now there would be twice as many eyes watching for them. Damn. 

"What do you think Grima wants with us?" Nah asked. "Why not just kill us?"

"He probably wants to torture us, to break our minds and spirits for his sadistic satisfaction -- to turn us into his own foul creatures, craven cowards who will grovel at his feet -- " Owain seemed far too enthusiastic about the idea.

"Hey, that's enough!" Gaius gave his son a light shove to the shoulder. "You'll do Grima's work for him, scaring everybody like that. Look, does it matter what Grima wants with us? He was already looking for us. Now he's just looking for us slightly differently."

"You're right," Nah said. "We just have to keep fighting, whatever Grima does -- we have no other options."

"Not sure Gregor's getting paid enough for this," the big mercenary commented.

"Ain't saving the world enough payment?" Gaius snapped. "Grima burns everything down and there's not going to be a lot of work for you, or anything to buy with the money. No civilization, no money ... and no sweets."

"We'll show that monster that the heroes of Ylisse are not so easily intimidated," Owain declared. "Our iron will shall not break under even the most gruesome of torments -- "

"Again, enough!" Gaius growled.

Nah interrupted by taking the paper from Owain. "We'd better tell Lucina and Morgan about this -- before we split up, too. We'll have to plan to avoid other people, I guess ... Eh, Morgan will know what to do."

"You go ahead and take it to him," Owain said. "I should go practice withstanding torture."

"How do you plan to do that, exactly?" Gaius asked.

"I ... I'm still working on that, but I'll find a way."

"Maybe don't."

"Did I hear something about telling me something?"

"Gods -- do not sneak up on Gregor like that!"

Morgan appeared around the mercenary's side. As usual, the boy appeared to be nearly drowning in his oversized coat; smiling, carrying a thick book, he seemed quite unthreatening. That appearance, and Morgan's carefree personality, could be deceptive as all those who'd seen him on the battlefield knew.

"Owain found this," Nah said, offering Morgan the flyer.

He read it quickly, smooth brow furrowing as he did. "I knew it ... I knew the Risen were up to something. But why? Why capture us? What use does Grima have for us?"

"Obviously the foul creature wants to torture -- " Owain cut himself off, glancing at Gaius.

"It's a possibility, but this seems like a lot of work to go to for that." Morgan hummed, looking at the paper: he seemed completely oblivious to the gruesome nature of what he'd just said, though Owain's expression was slightly, inappropriately vindicated. "I mean, torture us for what? Does Grima actually want anything from us, or is it just sadism? And it says any of us who surrender will be unharmed, which suggests it's not just about torture ... almost as if Grima's desperate to remove us from the playing field. I didn't think we were that much of a threat to him."

"Either way, we'll have to be careful of civilians," Gaius said.

"We might have to be careful of more than that." Frowning even more deeply, Morgan looked up at the others -- and at Gaius and Gregor specifically. "I'm ... I wouldn't blame members of the Shepherds for being unwilling to die for such a hopeless cause. It's a decent deal."

And Morgan thought he and Gregor were more likely to take such a deal, Gaius realized with an automatic rush of anger, because they'd originally joined the Shepherds for money. Never mind that both of them had wives and children now whose lives were at stake. Gregor's eyes narrowed; clearly he'd understood Morgan's meaning as well, and he opened his mouth to protest, but then the little prince was talking again.

"But Grima's not exactly known for his honesty, is he? I doubt any of the fine rewards on offer would meet expectations. Even if he means it literally, 'unharmed' doesn't make life pleasant, especially with the world burning down around you."

"A coward's life is not worth living," Owain agreed eagerly.

"Yeah, something like that." Morgan put the flyer down on the table. "I'll let Lucina know about this, but for now, we have to just continue as planned. We already intended to avoid other people as much as we could, to try and keep Grima from learning of our presence and also to avoid endangering them, if the Risen were hunting us; now that's just a little more important."

"We don't have a lot of other options, do we?" Nah sighed. "Well, I'd better go get ready."

She had also volunteered to go to Ylisstol, even though both of her parents were among the Mount Prism group -- not entirely by choice; Nowi had initially wished to join her daughter, but been talked out of it. While having a manakete's strength on their side would provide a great benefit, they were trying to be a bit stealthy, and Nowi had a tendency to be conspicuous. The Shepherds' third manakete, Tiki, was also bound for Mount Prism: as Naga's Voice, she might be able to offer some advantage in the ritual of Awakening. And they could certainly use any advantage they could get.

"The plan is for us to leave tonight, after sunset," Morgan reminded them. They'd travel in the dark in the hopes of avoiding the Risen's notice; the remaining Shepherds would also be engaging in some subterfuge, trying to make their camp look bigger than it was. The longer they could keep Grima from realizing that the Shepherds had split up, Morgan had explained, the better the chances of the group headed to Ylisstol -- to what was rapidly becoming enemy territory. According to their latest reports, the Risen was mere days from reaching the city -- they might get there before the Shepherds did. Morgan thought they could rely on the city garrison to make the Risen fight for every inch of ground, so they ought to be able to get there before the city actually fell, but then they would still have to locate baby Lucina and escape ... All of which would be far easier if the enemy didn't know they were there.

But now, well. Twice as many eyes watching for them. Gaius considered himself a realist, when it came to his general view of humanity, and realistically, most people would look around and realize what deep trouble they were in. They'd likely decide it was better to buckle under to Grima than to gamble on the slim chance that Lucina could save them; after all, they didn't even know her.

Well, she definitely wouldn't be able to save anyone if the Risen dragged her off to gods-knew-where for gods-knew-what. Looking at the flyer, Gaius had one last thought before he went off to gather his things -- and to say goodbye to his wife, who, like Owain, would accompany Lucina to Mount Prism. Grima had to know that Lucina would never surrender. But the fell dragon had specified wanting her alive. Why?

Probably nothing pleasant; this was Grima they were talking about. "Pleasant" was a foreign concept to him.


	6. Chapter 6

“Good morning!” Grima sang. “It’s time for us to go flying!”

 

“I would prefer not to,” Chrom replied, not moving.

 

Grima laughed. "Oh, love, don't you want to see your son again? I know I do."

 

Chrom sat up. In the back of his mind sat the hot bitterness that Grima had, once again, gotten through to him, but what else was he supposed to do? She'd found Morgan. Or she was lying; he had to keep in mind that that was always a possibility, though so far he had failed to catch her in a lie. But then, he was trapped here; he had no way to confirm or disprove much of anything. He had, finally, been allowed to go outside, just to some balconies and roofs on the Table, but all he could see from here was featureless wasteland -- featureless wasteland, unfortunately, with the Risen moving across it in a great unending flow, and unnatural storm clouds massing above. There were so many Risen -- he'd never seen so many. And that was what he and Cordelia, and now Inigo, newly arrived and trying hard to hide how shaken he was, would have to cross if they were to escape.

 

He had not, in the area around Grima’s Table, seen the actual dragon himself, and he would have been grateful for this, had he not realized that this probably meant that Grima was out ravaging the land, or, maybe worse: chasing Lucina.

 

All Chrom said, though, was, "Where?"

 

"Near Ylisstol." Grima smiled, rather cruelly. "They realized I was after the baby, I think. Smart boy. But all it really means is that I can, mm ... let's say  _ capture _ two birds with one net."

 

She'd modified the metaphor to remove the killing: that should've been encouraging, but somehow Chrom found it only more macabre.

 

More importantly, though: "We're going there?"

 

He didn't want to get his hopes up, but the idea of finally seeing the Shepherds again -- Shepherds who  _ weren't _ captives of Grima -- he doubted he would have a chance to speak to them, unless he escaped, or they were taken, but perhaps he could at least give them some sign that he was still alive ... 

 

Then again, it might be best for the Shepherds to think he was dead. Chrom didn't want Lucina or Morgan to waste resources that should have gone to defeating Grima trying to rescue him -- he definitely didn't want them putting themselves in danger for his sake. But if it offered them any comfort ... He had to hope, he supposed, that his children were wise enough to realize that the only way to save him was to defeat Grima altogether, and stay focused on that goal.  _ If _ defeating Grima would save him, that was: he was unarmed and surrounded by Risen; without Grima ensuring his safety ... But his own safety meant nothing next to the danger Grima posed to the world, and who knew how circumstances would play out? Perhaps Grima would be arrogant enough to drag her captives along to her final confrontation with Lucina, just to taunt her.

 

"I thought it'd be a nice way to get out and about," Grima said innocently. "Also, this is the first time I've caught the Shepherds in a group, and I was hoping you might be able to help settle things a bit more amicably."

 

Ah. "You mean you want me to tell them to surrender. I won't."

 

Grima shrugged. "That's your choice; I can't make you. Well, I can, but I  _ won't _ . But I really would like to take the Shepherds alive."

 

"Your record on that isn't great." Chrom had learned from Inigo that Lon’qu and Say’ri were dead, which tore at him: two more lives on his conscience, because he hadn't stopped Grima before it came to this. Three dead and two captured, excluding Chrom himself: he couldn’t help but feel that if Grima meant to keep them alive, she wasn’t trying hard enough.

 

Another shrug, and a rather false frown. "I asked them to stop fighting, but they didn't listen. That's why I'm hoping they'll listen to you.”

"I --"

 

"I know, you won't tell them to surrender, etc., etc." Grima flipped Robin's hair over her shoulder. "Maybe you'll change your mind when we get there. You wouldn't deny me that hope, would you? That would be cruel. And, even if you don't, I'd think you'd want to see your friends as soon as possible."

 

"I'd like to see Cordelia and Inigo," Chrom said. The other Shepherds were still being held somewhere else; from his Risen-escorted trips around the Table, he had come to suspect that his own chamber, what was once Validar's room, was near the core of the edifice, while the other prisoners were held more towards the edge. Probably because they were less important to Grima. He'd been seeing them around once a day, or once every other day, sometimes rather briefly: all at Grima's whim. No obvious ultimatum had been offered, but Chrom didn't think he was imagining a pattern in which he was permitted to see his friends less if he made trouble, or argued with Grima, and more if he accepted "Robin's" affections.

 

"They won't be coming with us." Grima led Chrom through the corridors of the Table, leading them upwards. Behind them came the typical faceless Risen guards. They typically didn't enter Validar's old chamber, but anywhere else Chrom went, the Risen were present and watching. "Don't worry; they'll be quite fine in our absence. And the sooner we conclude our business, the sooner we can return to them."

 

"I don't believe you," Chrom said flatly.

 

"That's all right. They'll still be fine, whether or not you believe me. Now, our ride is here."

 

Grima threw open a set of double doors: they led out onto a large, flat platform on the exterior of the Table, and on that platform rested Grima's head -- Grima, the dragon, the six-winged monster that could crush a city beneath it ... Chrom froze in the entranceway, all his usual courage overruled by a primitive, animal part of his brain that insisted that he needed to run and hide immediately from this creature that could snap his spine without so much as noticing. He reached for his sword, automatically, only to find that he wasn't wearing one: Robin-Grima had taken Falchion, and his back-up weapons, the only comfort he might have found in this situation.

 

And then it got worse, because the enormous dragon's head moved, tilted so that one of the great eyes could better focus on Chrom -- who stood smaller than the orb itself -- and then Grima spoke, a horrible rasping voice somewhere out of that mouth larger than a mansion, between teeth the size of ancient trees.

 

"Chrom ..."

 

Chrom's knees buckled involuntarily. He didn't scare like this, usually, but -- it was one thing to face death in battle, with Falchion in his hand and his allies by his side; it was another to know just how insignificant he was in this moment.

 

Robin-Grima caught him, put an arm around him to support and comfort him, and the enemy's touch managed to replace Chrom's instinctive fear with hot rage and shame. This was exactly the reaction Grima wanted, and so it had suddenly become imperative that Chrom not offer it. He straightened and stepped forward, pulling away from Robin-Grima and walking towards Grima-Grima. A stupid move, under any other circumstances, but he had Robin-Grima's many assurances that he would not be harmed -- if those were lies, he'd rather just find out as much now.

 

The dragon's head tilted further, to watch him, and he heard an awful laugh echo up out of that cavernous mouth. It didn't attack, though. Rather, after a moment it drew back a bit and repositioned its body so that its neck and shoulders sat level with the edge of the platform -- waiting for him to get on, Chrom realized. Behind him, Robin-Grima watched him silently, a challenging note in her eyes: she wanted to see whether he'd actually climb onto the back of the fell dragon unprompted.

 

Either Robin-Grima was telling the truth and he had nothing to fear, or Grima did wish him ill and he could do nothing to protect himself. Chrom stepped forward onto the thick bronze scales. He did have to put his arms out to balance himself: his boots' purchase on the scales was not excellent, and the back beneath him was shifting a bit, as Grima's six wings worked away somewhere beneath him. Mercifully, it was after dark, and most of the rest of the dragon’s body was only a vague image in the shadows.

 

Robin-Grima stepped on behind him and caught his arm to steady him, smiling with dark amusement. Of course, she walked here as easily as on level ground. "I'm impressed, love. I ought not have underestimated you."

 

"No, you shouldn't have," Chrom said through gritted teeth.

 

The Risen clambered onto Grima's back behind them, several of them, carrying various bags and bundles.

 

"What do they have?" Chrom asked.

 

"Everything we might need on the trip." Robin-Grima gestured, and Chrom could see the Risen already starting to tie their burdens onto the dragon's back -- some of them were even setting up an oddly-shaped and rather ornate tent. It hadn't occurred to him until now, but he realized that it would be rather unpleasant to ride Grima -- what a ludicrous idea that was to begin with -- through the storm around them, with no shelter from the wind and elements. It wasn't as if the fell dragon would stop and wait for better weather ... Frowning, Chrom stepped forward unsteadily, trying to see how the Risen were fastening the packages on and pinning down the tent: they certainly weren't running lines across the entire battlefield-bulk of Grima's back, or setting pitons into the scaled back. He saw the ropes going only to points of light, and it took him a moment to puzzle it out, but the answer came soon enough: magic. It was a waste of power, but then he supposed Grima had no lack of that. "It's going to take us a few days, even flying. Come, let's get out of the wind."

 

While Chrom had been trying to figure out the mechanics of their work, the Risen had finished setting up the tent. Its form was unusual: tapered, one end flush with Grima's back and the canvas smoothly rising to the other. It took a couple glances for Chrom to work out that it'd been designed to minimize wind resistance as Grima flew. He wondered whether the Grimleal had already had this idea tucked away somewhere, or if Robin-Grima had worked it out herself; the latter would not greatly surprise him. He was quite familiar with Robin's ingenuity, though it was a bad sign if that still existed somewhere in there, now in the service of Grima.

 

But Chrom allowed Robin-Grima to lead him into the tent, which was, of course, embroidered with Grimleal designs. The inside was not particularly large, especially considering the size of the dragon's back: it was no larger than the tents they had often shared on the road with the Shepherds. Inside the Risen had placed bedrolls and bundles of supplies, as well as blankets and books. The tent was not high: not much taller than Chrom at the entrance, it then tapered rather quickly towards the floor. On entering, Robin-Grima immediately laid out a blanket across her bedroll and flopped down across it, picking up a book.

 

"Make yourself comfortable," she said. "We're going to be here a while."

 

Chrom opened his mouth to answer, and then his stomach lurched as Grima moved underneath him: he lost his balance and almost fell onto Robin-Grima before catching himself against the side of the tent. He managed to sit down with more alacrity than grace, but at least he didn't end up in Robin-Grima's lap. In a patch of empty floor, uncovered by bedding, he could feel the dragon's scales, with their hard edges. If he had a blade ... if he'd had a blade, Chrom could have perhaps pried off one of the shield-sized scales, one among what must have been thousands covering Grima's body. It would have been less than a pinprick to the creature. It might have made Chrom feel better, though.

 

He should, in fact, take the time to analyze Grima's armor, to look for any weakness in the dragon's defense. He might never get a chance to tell anyone of it, but, well -- having some goal would help keep him sane, if nothing else, and one thing he had learned from Robin was to never discount an opportunity. Perhaps he could get out of the tent, get a better look at the creature. From the size of its head alone, Chrom knew now that its scale was almost beyond imagination: armies could have marched into that mouth with room to spare.  _ Grima’s Table _ … he’d imagined the monster eating humans, crunching them in its jaws, but an individual man would be like a seed to this thing, too small to even taste individually. A horrific image leapt to Chrom’s mind unbidden: someone trapped, alive and mostly whole, between the dragon’s teeth, like a crumb … 

 

“You’re not airsick, are you? You look pale.”


	7. Chapter 7

A few miles from Ylisstol, Morgan held his baby older sister, watched Grima emerge from the clouds, and realized, fully, just how badly he’d been outmaneuvered. They’d snuck into Ylisstol, past the Risen siege; they’d encountered some Risen, but not too many for them to defeat. They’d even managed to stop the word from getting out to the rest of the Risen forces, or so they’d thought. But the Risen had redoubled their efforts once the Shepherds were inside. While Frederick and Maribelle located the royal nurse, Morgan had watched the city fall. He’d done his best to stop it, of course -- though the commanders Chrom had left behind, stolid older generals, were hardly charmed by the idea of taking orders from a stripling boy, prince or no prince, and since he had technically never been born, they had no problem casting doubt on that title. In the ensuing arguments, Morgan discovered, rather to his surprise, that the old guard of the Ylissean court had secretly, or perhaps not so secretly, resented his mother as well: a stranger, a commoner, a foundling who had come out of nowhere and snatched such a coveted position as princess-consort -- “And look what came of it!” one old woman even said. “If the prince had left her on the side of the road where he’d found her, he might still be alive!”

Morgan had never before felt the urge to hit someone who did not have a weapon in their hand, and he did not succumb to it now. Neither did he accept the more subtle revenge of simply leaving these lackluster commanders to lose without the benefit of his unwanted advice. It was tempting -- extraordinarily tempting -- but every time he almost walked out, his parents’ voices would remind him that it wasn’t the foot soldiers’ fault their generals were fools. The people remaining in Ylisstol -- the  _ commoners _ these generals held in such contempt -- did not deserve to suffer for the stupidity of their government. So he went behind the generals’ backs to their lieutenants, and found some of them rather more sensible, and began organizing a rearguard action to try and preserve as much of the army and save as many lives as possible, while the generals in their war councils insisted that they would not lose the city.

Meanwhile Maribelle found baby Lucina and her nurse embroiled in some noble power play that she did not bother to fully explain, and retrieved the child, and the Shepherds gathered around Morgan and waited for his verdict, which turned out to be that they should sneak out of the city much as they had come. He wasn’t sure whether it was wise to head to Mount Prism and try to reunite the Shepherds -- gods knew they could use every sword they could muster, but it might be wise to avoid putting all their eggs in one basket, or all their royal blood in one army … One thing was certain, however: they could not stay in Ylisstol. The city would fall in days, and a dozen Shepherds would not make any difference to that. So Morgan left the traditional commanders with his best advice and they made their escape. It went well enough at first, but the Risen picked up their trail quickly, and that led to now, the moment when Morgan realized that Ylisstol had, in fact, been one enormous trap, and not the one he thought he’d escaped, either. The Risen had been waiting for them to leave the city; they’d intentionally caught the Shepherds as they snuck through the woods.  _ In the city, there’d be more places to hide _ .

They were surrounded, boxed into rough terrain where their horses' speed was no longer an advantage, and now Grima loomed in the sky, providing the enemy with an aerial vantage point and, also, an unbeatable weapon. No strategy Morgan could devise could do anything against the pure force of that dragon hanging above them; he could simply descend and crush them all bodily. 

 

"Milord," Frederick said, at his side. The unnecessary formality, which Morgan usually found amusing, suddenly seemed very sad. "We still have pegasi."

 

Morgan nodded. They had two pegasi with them, the mounts of Cynthia and Sumia; they could fly away. Except that the Risen had bows, and Grima waiting to swat them out of the sky like insects ... He doubted they'd get through.

 

"Let me take the baby," Cynthia urged. "I'll be able to pull through."

 

"Those archers will tear you apart," Basilio snorted. "But sending little Lucina off with someone unobtrusive isn't the worst idea. Maybe if the rest of us distract the Risen ..."

 

"You're right," Morgan said. "Kellam, are you still here?"

 

The armored knight coughed from next to a tree that, despite looking nothing like his armor at all, he'd managed to blend into. If he could pass as unnoticed on the battlefield as he did in camp ... "You want me to take the baby? And ... run away?"

 

"That's the mission we came south to fulfill, and you have a talent for stealth." Morgan offered the sleeping child to Kellam, who took her carefully. 

 

"I'll protect her with my life, of course."

 

"Here," Sumia said, helping Kellam fasten baby Lucina's swaddlings into a secure sling so that he could continue with his hands free. It was a bit pointless, Morgan knew: if the enemy became aware enough of Kellam for him to have to defend himself, his mission had already failed. But Morgan didn't tell them so; that would simply damage morale.

 

"The rest of us should prepare to mount a spirited defense," Morgan said instead. "It ... it actually might not hurt for the pegasi to make a feint in another direction, and act as if they're trying to escape. But it's ..."

 

_ It's almost certain death _ , Morgan didn't say. 

 

"I'll go," Sumia said, and Morgan could see in her eyes that she knew.

 

"I'm going too." Cynthia spoke up. In her gaze Morgan saw determination but not acceptance, not the terrible knowledge that Sumia held. “We can get through this. A bunch of monsters like that will never even be able to touch us.”

 

She sounded like she really believed that. Her mother said, “Cynthia …”

 

“Ha!” Henry’s laugh rang bright and incongruous, and at least a few people turned to him with glares. “That’s the spirit! Even if we don’t make it out, we’re going to have quite a time, don’t you think?”

 

For a moment there was silence, and then Basilio laughed too, a low growling rumble. “The little crow has a point. We might die, but we won’t die cowards. Let’s give those dastards a reason to remember us!”

 

“Hell yes!” said Sully.

 

“There is no shame in death, only in cowardice,” Maribelle said, eyes bright.

 

“Besides,” Henry said, looking up, “I always did want to see if Grima was as strong as all the stories said.”

 

“Not helping, Sunshine.” But Gaius’ sigh wasn’t entirely negative. “Everybody’s got to go sometime, I guess.”

 

Morgan looked around at them and found himself smiling. There was something comforting in the reminder that he was not placing faceless armies onto a distant battlefield but leading friends and comrades into a fight that was just as important to them as it was to him.

 

“Let’s do this.”

 

He wondered if his mother had felt this way.


	8. Chapter 8

Looking down from Grima's back, Chrom couldn't tell exactly who comprised the heart-breakingly small knot of Shepherds on the ground, among the trees; he wasn't even sure of their exact number. But he glanced over at Robin-Grima and knew that she saw a much more complete picture of the battlefield than he did, and not just because she had more eyes on it, with Grima's six great orbs looking down. Even Chrom could see the Risen closed in a ring around the Shepherds and slowly getting nearer.

 

"You said you didn't want to kill them," Chrom reminded her.

 

"I don't. If they surrender, I won't. You could tell them that." Robin-Grima spoke without taking her eyes off the battlefield. "Ah, there they go."

 

Two pegasi burst from the trees, and Chrom recognized Cynthia and Sumia, flying as quickly as they could in opposite directions as the Risen's own fliers converged on them -- and as arrows flew. Chrom's heart leapt into his mouth. "You can't bring them down -- they might have the baby!"

 

Robin-Grima shook her head. "They're a diversion, I expect. But don't worry. They won't hit the ground."

 

As Chrom watched, Cynthia jerked back in her saddle, blood blooming from somewhere among her armor, and then fell limp off the panicked pegasus. A wyvern-mounted Risen swooped down to retrieve the body, as Cynthia's lance spun away towards the distant ground, and other Risen chased down her directionless mount. Dozens of yards away, fleeing her own pursuers, Sumia screamed.

 

Chrom realized that his hands were clenched tightly at his sides. He glanced down at Robin-Grima, who tapped a finger calmly against her lips. "Unfortunate."

 

"You didn't give her a chance to surrender."

 

"She might still be alive." Robin-Grima shrugged. "I sent word. They all know the conditions."

 

Another cry from Sumia: Chrom looked up to see her pegasus lurching with a lance buried deep in its side. As Sumia struggled with the reins, a Risen snatched at her, trying to pull her weapon from her grasp, or perhaps to tear her off the animal's back. 

 

"I'm surprised at Morgan," Robin-Grima commented, impassive. "I taught him better than this."

 

Hearing steel clash, Chrom looked at the ground: he could see Risen moving and even catch glimpses among the trees of his friends. In that moment, he knew that he could not simply stand here and do nothing while they fought for their lives.

 

"Now things are getting interesting," Robin-Grima said, grinning. "Morgan's realized that I want him alive, and he's using -- "

 

Chrom slammed into what had once been his wife, hitting her in a full-bodied tackle, shoving them both towards the edge of Grima's back. Robin-Grima had time for only a grunt of surprise before they both rolled off into empty air; she clung to him, probably automatically, but it didn't matter. Chrom had no intention of trying to save himself. In fact, the opposite: even in the rush of wind he could glimpse Risen on pegasi and wyverns swooping towards them as they fell, and he tried to roll away from them. 

 

He failed. Cold hands grabbed at his clothes, at Robin-Grima's coat; he lashed out, and Robin-Grima was pulled away from him, and shortly afterwards Chrom found himself dangling from the claws of a particularly large wyvern as Robin-Grima circled him on pegasus-back, riding double with a blank-faced Risen, windswept but otherwise completely unharmed. Probably even succeeding wouldn't have materially inconvenienced Grima -- but it was still incredibly discouraging.

 

"Well, that was exhilarating," Robin-Grima called. "Are you all right, love?"

 

_ Next time I'll have to go for something faster. _ They were always surrounded by armed Risen; surely Chrom could find a way to wrestle one of their weapons away from them. Or there was always the beating her to death with a blunt object idea that had initially occurred to him. One thing was sure: after watching Cynthia fall from that pegasus, Chrom no longer had any reservations about physically attacking Grima, even if she did wear Robin's face.

 

The Risen returned them to Grima's back, and when the wyvern dropped Chrom onto the surface, two Risen immediately grabbed his arms, pulling him upright and holding him in place. He struggled, unsuccessfully. Robin-Grima hopped down from her pegasus in front of him and examined him, frowning.

 

“I’ll be honest: I was hoping we could avoid this.” She put a hand, gently, tenderly, on his face. Her skin felt cold. A single tear welled out of Chrom’s eye and fell, burning-hot, onto Grima’s hand. “Chrom, the war is over. All you can do now is hurt yourself.”

 

“I would rather die than watch you like this,” Chrom whispered, hoarse.

 

Withdrawing her hand, Grima rubbed his tear between her fingers, as if marveling over the fact that such a thing existed. “Then I won’t make you watch. Take him back to the tent.”

 

“Wait! Morgan -- ” It galled Chrom to back down, but he had to know what happened to his son, his friends -- and his infant daughter, too. And: “What have you done with Sumia? Cynthia?”

 

Grima shrugged. “You’ll find out. Now, Chrom …  _ sleep _ .”

 

She leaned in, while the Risen held him down, and kissed him on the forehead, and from that kiss spread a thick, sticky darkness in his mind, and then Chrom was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

"You see that, lad?" Basilio asked, ducking behind a rock with Morgan in an attempt to win a moment's breathing room, avoid the Risen's arrows and spears.

 

Morgan nodded. He'd very much noticed that when he'd come to Basilio's aid, the Risen's attacks had abated -- not ceased entirely, but no longer had they aimed hails of arrows towards the khan. It was a recurring pattern: when Morgan entered harm's way, the Risen backed off; their attacks became more precise, less indiscriminate. They shot to wound instead of to kill.

 

"They want me alive." The flier Owain had found had said as much. In the midst of a battle that seemed hopeless, when they'd already watched their pegasus-knights shot out of the sky, that was an advantage. "We can use that."

 

"You sure? If we're wrong, or they change their minds ..."

 

"Then we'll be back where we started." With near certain death, Morgan didn't say. The glimmer of hope presented by the Risen's odd reluctance to kill him was almost painful, because now they had something to lose. When they'd been certain of defeat, there'd been less pressure on Morgan, but now he had a card to play -- and lose. The stress clenched his gut: he felt sure that Robin would have found some way to fully leverage this tiny advantage, but he simply wasn't as clever as his mother. He knew there had to be a better way to use this, but he just couldn't see it.

 

Cynthia and Sumia were down. The Risen had carried away their bodies, and those of their pegasi, rather than letting them fall, which Morgan found odd, at least until it occurred to him that the undead must've wanted to check that neither woman carried baby Lucina: they wanted her alive too. Which didn't make sense, if Grima had gone after the baby only to set a trap, or to kill her and thus cause future Lucina to no longer exist ... But that was the same question that Morgan had already tried and failed to answer: why had Grima chosen to capture rather than kill him and his sister?

 

Returning to the present, Morgan looked around, taking stock. The other Shepherds were somewhat scattered; the Risen had tried hard to separate them. They weren't as eager to kill any of them as he'd expected, though they seemed more willing to land fatal blows on the others than on Morgan. But instead they seemed content to harry the Shepherds, wear them down bit by bit and herd them apart ... Morgan had lost track of Sully, Kjelle, and Gaius; he knew Nah had fallen, as her dragon form no longer rose above the trees; and of course he had no idea where Kellam was, and hoped not to see him again, since if he did, it would likely be because the man's attempt to flee with the baby had failed. So he had Basilio, Maribelle, Henry, and Frederick at his command -- those others were nearby, close enough to form a group and act as one, though not currently at Morgan's side as Basilio was. Morgan gestured them over to him as he thought, so that they could hear whatever he came up with.

 

Five of them, against a veritable army of Risen. Morgan thought he ought to take a moment to figure out what their goal actually was. Under these circumstances, "victory" was a highly relative term. The best victory would, of course, be escaping and living to fight another day, but failing that, if they could do Grima's forces some material harm ...

 

"We'll try a wedge formation, with myself as the point," Morgan said.

 

"Surely it's far too dangerous -- " Frederick began. Of course: his job was to protect the royal family, not analyze strategy; he wouldn't have seen what Morgan and Basilio had.

 

"They're trying to take me alive," Morgan explained. "I'm not sure why, but it might offer us a bit of cover. Maribelle, Frederick ... you're going to have to leave your horses. They'll just slow us down and make it more difficult for us all to stay as a unit."

 

The two riders looked at each other, then at their mounts.

 

"It's not like the Risen have any reason to go after the poor animals," Henry offered, by way of comfort. "They'll probably have a better chance without us."

 

"True," Maribelle said, hopping gracefully down from the saddle. "And of course this would be an idiotic moment for one of my usual complaints about being too well-bred to walk -- I am somewhat self-aware, you know."

 

This last bit was aimed particularly at Basilio, though no criticism had been forthcoming, from that quarter or from anyone else. As Maribelle spoke, Frederick climbed down as well, patting his horse on the neck as he stood beside it.

 

"Most of my training and practice in recent years has focused on mounted combat. I fear I may not be at my peak effectiveness on foot, and I believe we do rather need me at my peak effectiveness." Frederick spoke while arranging his horse's tack with a rigid precision: it was a habit of his, to turn to minutiae in moments of stress. Morgan suspected that it helped him feel in better control of the situation. He might not be able to stop the Risen forming up around them, but he could remove tangles from the animal’s mane.

 

"That's a risk we're going to have to take," Morgan said. "I think we'd better have you and Basilio behind me, forming the edges of the formation, and Maribelle and Henry on the interior, more protected. Maribelle, do your best to keep us alive. Henry ..."

 

Morgan looked at the Plegian mage, who was splattered with blood, most of it not his, and still looked very cheerful for someone fighting a losing battle in a dying world.

 

"I'll do my best to keep them not alive, yes?" he said brightly.

 

"Give 'em hell, kid," Basilio said. "Let's go."

 

"See that thick treeline? We'll head there. Maps say there're some ruins a couple miles to the west -- we'll aim for them, try to lose the Risen in the tree cover and take shelter in the ruins. If you get separated from the group ..." Morgan paused. Their group was small enough that if more than one person got separated, it would effectively cease to be a group. "Just stay alive."

 

In hindsight, Morgan really should’ve made a backup plan. Robin would have made a backup plan; she would’ve found some way to fulfill that secondary goal of striking against Grima even if the primary one, of survival, could not succeed.

 

Basilio went down first, a lance darting in past the khan’s defenses and into his pridefully bare chest, demonstrating that the indefatigable old warrior was human after all. Morgan squeezed his eyes shut and called for the others to keep going, but it was too late: Maribelle had stopped to try to heal Basilio, and Henry gotten caught up behind her, and in a matter of seconds it was over. The Risen swarmed over them, grabbing the sword from Morgan’s hand. Frederick kept fighting the longest, roaring in fury, but soon he too was silent: Morgan couldn’t see exactly what had become of him, because the Risen were dragging him, almost entirely unharmed, onto wyvern back. He almost wished for a wound, to show that he had resisted. They were taking him to Grima, where the great dragon hung in the sky, and Morgan thought distantly that at least now he'd find out why they wanted him alive, even if he probably wouldn't get the chance to share this intelligence with Lucina. 

 

The Risen bundled him off the wyvern, and the first thing he saw was his mother, wonderfully and miraculously alive, and it wasn't until he'd already run and embraced her that his brain started working and reminded him of the Hierophant and also of just how unlikely Robin’s presence here was. But she returned his embrace, and stroked his hair, murmuring, “Morgan … it's all right. Everything's going to be fine.”

 

Morgan tilted back his head to look at his mother, and thought about how she stood here unbothered on Grima’s back, among the Risen -- more than unbothered: commanding -- and his heart sank. For some reason it sank even further when she asked, “Where's the baby?”

 

“She's safe.” It was a perfectly reasonable question for Robin to ask -- of course she would be concerned about her daughter. But asking it here, on Grima’s back, surrounded by apparently pacified Risen … 

 

Robin’s next words made it worse. “So she's with someone I haven't caught yet, Sully or Kjelle … ah, of course. Kellam. Gods damn him. Really, Morgan, what makes you think the man is qualified to care for a child?”

 

“You're serving Grima,” Morgan said, quietly. Then, looking up into his mother's face, seeing the complete lack of regret or struggle or compassion there, he corrected himself: “You  _ are  _ Grima.”

 

“Very good,” Robin said. “I thought you'd be clever enough that I wouldn't have to explain it.”

 

There was no point, then, in asking how she could do this, how she could hurt her friends like this … No point in appealing to her better nature, because Grima had none. Morgan still stood in his not-mother’s arms, partially because it was the only comfort he was going to get and partially because he was surreptitiously checking her pockets inside her coat for a weapon. Or perhaps he'd find a slip of paper with “Grima’s plans” written on it in big block letters. A boy could hope. 

 

Robin -- no, Grima -- knew exactly what he was doing, though; she smiled as if this were another one of their games and pushed him away, into the arms of the Risen. “You should rest, Morgan. I know this has been stressful. Take him to the tent.”

 

“Wait!” Morgan cried, because as he turned away from Grima, he saw the others: his friends, the people who’d come here under his command. They hung in the grip of various Risen: grips that were almost more supportive than restraining, because all of them were injured fairly badly. In fact, Morgan couldn’t be sure at a glance that everyone was still alive, but they were all here: Cynthia, Sumia, Nah, even Gaius, who must have been captured when Morgan lost track of him. The only Shepherds missing were Sully, Kjelle, and Kellam, and Morgan thanked the gods for that: they’d managed to evade Grima’s forces. So far. “What about them?”

 

Grima looked up, as if she hadn’t even noticed the others; there was something horribly ostentatious in the movement. “They’ll be fine … or, rather, they will not be harmed further. I said that the Shepherds would be safe if they surrendered, remember? They’ll receive excellent medical attention.”

 

She was telling the truth: Morgan saw Risen priests and clerics with staves moving among his fallen friends, healing them. Some of them -- Nah, Sumia \-- the healers turned away from after a cursory examination, and Morgan’s heart squeezed at this silent, pragmatic declaration of death.

 

“I want to stay here with them,” Morgan insisted. There probably wasn’t anything he could do, but something irrational in his soul screamed that if he let his friends out of his sight under these circumstances, he would never see them again. And if there were any way to help them, surely he’d need to be with them to seize that opportunity.

 

Grima paused. “You don’t want to see your father?”

 

As little as he wanted to give Grima the satisfaction of surprising him, Morgan felt his eyes widen. Of course. He hadn’t even thought about Chrom, having so much else on his mind, but if Grima wanted him and Lucina alive, then maybe their father … “How is he?”

 

“He’s perfectly fine.” Grima smiled, and there was something cruel in that smile. “He’s sleeping right now. He got a little, mm, upset.”

 

Morgan’s jaw clenched. Oh, who could have imagined that Chrom might get a bit upset watching his comrades hunted down and slaughtered? “If he’s sleeping, he won’t know I’m there, anyway, so he can wait. I’d like to stay with my friends.”

 

Grima smiled the same smile Robin had once used when Morgan said something rather clever during his training. “Very well. Let’s go see them, then, shall we?”

 

Morgan followed Grima across the back of, well, Grima, briefly distracted by wondering how, exactly, that whole dragon-and-person thing worked, and then any such intangible questions were driven from his mind as he looked into the battered faces of his friends. Henry, Frederick, and Gaius were still conscious; Basilio, Maribelle, and Cynthia hung limply in the Risen’s grasp, and Nah and Sumia had already been taken away. It hurt, but Morgan had to confirm: “Nah and Sumia are … ?”

 

“Dead,” Grima said, sighing. “A pity. Especially Nah -- I would like to keep a manakete around, and of the Shepherds’ three, she is the most tolerable. And it looks ill for Basilio and Cynthia, as well.”

 

Morgan could see that just looking at the khan’s face. Maribelle could have been sleeping -- in extremely inopportune surroundings -- but there was an empty cast to Basilio’s countenance, as if something had departed from his body, even as he still breathed. And Cynthia … she was so still, and there was so very much blood.

 

With considerable effort, Frederick lifted his head. “Robin … ?”

 

Beside Grima, Morgan shook his head. He could only imagine the piteous expression on his own face: Frederick stared wide-eyed at him.

 

“Sir Frederick,” Grima said, a playful note on the honorific. “Chrom will be pleased to see you.”

 

Frederick’s eyes lit up at the mention of his liege’s name. “Lord Chrom is alive?”

 

“He’s perfectly well.” Grima patted Frederick’s cheek. “You just focus on getting well, now. I’ll take care of everything else.”

 

Morgan watched Frederick’s eyes slide closed -- he’d never seen such a look of relief, a lack of tension, on the man’s face. Apparently he hadn’t thought too deeply about their surroundings, about Robin’s presence here or the things holding him. For the moment, Morgan decided not to enlighten him. Let him enjoy the news of his lord’s survival in peace: he would learn all the downsides of their situation soon enough.

 

Grima continued down the line of Risen-held prisoners, Morgan at her side. They came to Gaius: he lifted his head, looked at Grima and Morgan, and said only, "You got any snacks? I could really use something sweet right now, and my supply is a bit bloody."

 

Grima shook her head. "An oversight on my part, my friend, but I wasn't sure you'd be joining us."

 

Gaius looked around, briefly, silently casting doubt on that last statement. Then he shrugged, or tried to: between his injuries and the Risen holding him, the motion was not a complete success. "Let me know when you find something, all right? Till then, this feels like a good time to be unconscious."

 

"It most certainly is," Grima said, laughing a little, as Gaius's head fell forward and he went limp. Walking on, Grima murmured, "Gods ... Have I ever mentioned that I do, in fact, really like that man?"

 

"He's fun," Morgan agreed, distantly.

 

"Knows what he wants and goes after it ... I can appreciate that. Speaking of which ..." They'd come to Henry. The Plegian mage barely seemed to notice the Risen around him; he was holding up one hand, closely examining it, apparently fascinated by the coating of his own blood which it bore. "Henry! Just the man I wanted to see."

 

"Hi, Robin," Henry said, without looking up. "Nice new place you've got here."

 

"Isn't it just?" Grima took Henry's bloody hand, turning it in hers so that the liquid caught the light -- the light of the sun sinking in the sky and also the red glow from the Risen's eyes. "I thought you might be able to appreciate my work, Henry."

 

Henry looked at Grima with an exaggerated frown. "This  _ hurt _ , Robin. I really don't like that."

 

"I know. I'm sorry." Grima patted Henry's cheek -- leaving a blood smear. "On the bright side, nothing ever has to hurt again."

 

Henry smiled. "That sounds nice."

 

Morgan said, "Henry, that's not my mother. That's Grima."

 

“Do I bow? Should I bow? I don’t think I can bow. Sorry, Grima. Big fan, though. You make a lot of beautiful corpses.”

 

“Morgan, I am your mother -- I’m just Grima too. And Henry, don’t worry about bowing; we’re friends.”

 

Morgan watched as if from very far away, filled with a simultaneous horror and sense of inevitability. Of course Henry would join Grima. As cheerful as he might seem, the dark mage loved gore and death, and who could provide him with more of that than the fell dragon? Hell, he’d been wearing the Grimleal seal on his collar this whole time … Quietly, Morgan asked, “Were you working for Grima all along?”

 

But no, that didn’t fit: he’d fought right up until the end with the rest of them; he was currently restrained by Risen just like the rest of them.

 

Henry shook his head, then winced. “I mean, I’ve always admired the whole blood-and-chaos thing, and hoped I contributed to that in my own little way, but I didn’t dare think I’d ever get to meet you. Life takes the best turns! Hmm, now I just have to nail down the bird thing …” 

 

“I think I can help with that,” Grima said, smiling. “But for now, you just rest. There’ll be plenty of death and mayhem left when you’re back on your feet.”

 

“Aw, you spoil me.”


	10. Chapter 10

"Lucina, we need to talk."   
  
Lucina looked up from her map. At first she didn't believe that it was actually Owain speaking: where were the overblown adjectives, the grandiose boasts? The color?   
  
But it was him, and perhaps the pedestrian language indicated the nature of his concern. He looked solemn, downcast; maybe this was too serious for his usual melodrama. Lucina rather hoped not, as she wasn't sure how much more bad news she could even handle. They should have heard from Morgan's group by now, but only the news of Ylisstol's fall had escaped the west. The memories of her city burning played nearly non-stop in Lucina's mind now, especially when she tried to sleep. Once, she'd been able to tell herself that it wasn't real, that those things happened in a future that would never come; but now they were true in this time as well. Scattered word of evacuations and rearguard actions -- a handful of which mentioned Morgan's name -- offered little comfort.   
  
"Yes, Owain? What do you need?"   
  
"It's not just me." Owain stepped aside slightly to show several others gathered at Lucina's tent flap: Laurent; Flavia, looking angry; Lissa, almost in tears; Tharja; a worried Tiki; and Libra. "We're all ... concerned."   
  
"We're all under a lot of stress, but I assure you, I can handle -- "   
  
"It's not that," Laurent interrupted. "Our worries are a bit more ... specific. And tangible."   
  
"Only those of exalted blood can awaken Naga," Tharja said. "But you don't  _ just _ have exalted blood, do you, your highness?"   
  
The last words had a cruel twist to them, and Lucina found herself defensive, responding without really considering the idea. "What are you talking about?"   
  
"A load of absolute nonsense," Flavia growled. "I told them to drop it, but apparently my authority doesn't count for as much here as it does in Regna Ferox. Or on the training grounds."   
  
The assembled Shepherds withered somewhat under Flavia's furious gaze, except for Tharja, who returned the look with one yet more challenging.   
  
"It's a legitimate concern," Libra said quietly, without malice. "Your mother ..."   
  
Lucina did not, at all, want to think about her mother right now. She remembered again standing in that field, Falchion pointed at Robin's heart; her mother's acceptance. And then, later, at the Table: such a look of relief on Robin's face when Chrom got up again, even though she'd known of the plan all along, always known that the bolt lancing into his side was too weak to kill. And then, the other Robin ... Grima ...  _ Grima always slumbered inside you ...  _ For the first couple steps, as they fled, Chrom had been right behind Lucina. Then she'd heard him scream, seen him fall, seen Robin's contorted face ... and then Frederick had half-dragged her away as Chrom and Robin both screamed for them to run.   
  
"If Naga finds you wanting during the Awakening, it will be deadly," Tiki said.   
  
"She has to see that I want nothing but to save Ylisse," Lucina said, "and to stop Grima."   
  
"But you have fell blood." Libra clasped his hands, almost in prayer. "She will know."   
  
Lucina looked at the others. "Tiki, will that matter?"   
  
The manakete bit her lip. "I'm ... truly not sure. You have a great heart, Lucina. That may matter more than the blood that flows through it. Or it ... may not. Of one thing I am sure, however: we will get no second chances at this rite."   
  
"What other options do we have?" Lucina asked, though she knew the answer even as she spoke.   
  
Owain cleared his throat. "There's me."   
  
Owain: her cousin, Lissa's son, his lineage untainted by Robin. Lucina looked at him, and he must have seen the doubt on her face, because he flushed; but he must have felt something of the same doubt himself, because this time he wasn't bragging about his heroic destiny. In fact, he didn't look like he  _ wanted  _ to take up Falchion.

 

“The alternatives are not encouraging, I’ll admit,” Tharja said, looking rather contemptuously at Owain.

 

“You ever even touched Falchion, kid?” Flavia asked.

 

“I’ve  _ touched  _ it! Just not in … real combat …”

 

No one, at all, looked impressed with this admission, not even Owain’s own mother.

 

Lucina took a deep breath, fighting any instinct she might have possessed to take this as a personal insult. It wasn't. The other Shepherds did not mean her any harm; Owain even seemed to have dropped his glory-seeking ways, at least in this conversation, when it really mattered. Everyone just wanted to be absolutely sure they could successfully Awaken Naga, and defeat Grima, because the cost of failure was simply too high.

 

She looked at the assembled Shepherds. "I believe I can Awaken Naga. I've ... I've trained for this for a long time. But if you truly believe I should step aside, I will. This is too important for personal pride to play a role in our decision."

 

"That response alone tells us you should be the one on that mountain," Flavia said, still impatient with the entire conversation. She looked down at Owain. "Can you say the same?"

 

"Of course!" Owain's voice broke. "I want to stop Grima as much as any of the rest of you!"

 

"And you have no interest, whatsoever, in prancing heroically about a broken world? Unwinnable battles are so romantic."

 

"Owain wouldn't do that!" Lissa spoke up for the first time, and Lucina turned to her.

 

"What do you think, Aunt Lissa?"

 

The woman -- younger now than Lucina herself was -- blushed. "I don't know. I just ... Maybe it would work either way. I wish ..."

 

She didn't finish, but Lucina knew what she'd been about to say: I wish Chrom were here. I wish Chrom were alive. If he were, they wouldn't even have to have this discussion, because they would already have a perfect candidate for the ritual. Naga never could have rejected Chrom. Lucina, though? She had a sudden moment of doubt that the divine dragon would accept her, fell blood or no fell blood. Coming back in time -- if you really looked at it, really thought about it, wasn't it just running away?

 

There was nothing that could have saved that future. Nothing except this. And she couldn't second-guess that decision, because if she did, she'd soon be right back in that timeline, and the point'd be moot.

 

"And the rest of you?" Lucina asked, looking over the Shepherds. "Tiki, Libra? What do you advise?"

 

Tiki shook her head. "I don't know."

 

"I ... am not utterly convinced of the wisdom of changing our course," Libra said, glancing at Owain. "I simply wished to ensure that the possibility were considered."

 

"So you brought up the question, and now you're ducking out of the responsibility of providing an answer." Tharja snorted and turned away. "Bah! What would I know about Naga's will, anyway?"

 

"She's got a point," Flavia said grimly. "As is, this discussion's doing nothing but sowing doubt and malcontent. I don't think anyone else needs to know about this, do you?"

 

The khan's eyes dared any of the others to challenge her.

 

Laurent said, "It's important to consider all relevant information when making a decision, even if some of it is unpleasant. Lucina, Owain, perhaps we could devise some sort of experiment ..."

 

"None of your experiments shall be able to predict the response of a god," Libra said, more matter-of-fact than offended, and Tiki shook her head as well.

 

"Experiments can predict -- "

 

"Lucina should do it," Owain said, overloud. He glanced at Lissa, something lost in his eyes. "I ... a great darkness slumbers in my breast that would surely offend the divine dragon's sight."

 

"Owain -- " Lissa began.

 

"The only darkness in him is that he's full of bull -- " Tharja muttered.

 

"Look!" Owain said. "Lucina is the spitting image of her father. She bears the exalt’s brand in her very eye -- don't tell me that isn't heavy with symbolism. She sees and lives nothing but Naga's will. If the divine dragon rejects her, she has abandoned Ylisse and this world altogether, and we have nothing to do but burn."

 

Silence fell. Lucina felt herself blushing at the high praise, though she wasn't sure if it really  _ was _ praise. Did she want to be a carbon copy of Chrom, living only for Naga? Where was she, as a person, in that assessment? Then again ...  _ Grima slumbered inside you all along _ ... There were worse things to be.

 

"If Owain doesn't want to be Naga's chosen, then he's sure not to be," Lissa said, with a steely determination in her voice, as if she could make the statement true simply by being convincing enough. "Lucina will Awaken Naga. That's the end of the matter. We don't have to discuss it anymore."

 

She glared around the group, much as Flavia had, and somehow the petite princess managed to be almost as convincing as the khan. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucina saw Flavia grin.

 

“That’s not strictly …” Tiki began, then subsided.

 

“Are we done here? We’re done here. Come on, Owain.” Lissa marched off, and the others dispersed after her, with certain mutterings from Tharja.

 

As Tiki turned to go, Lucina put a hand on her shoulder and drew her into her own tent. “What were you going to say? That’s not strictly what?”

 

“Not  _ wanting _ to be chosen does not preclude the possibility of being so,” Tiki said. She glanced around. “But I consider you a better candidate than that posturing boy, truly. I believe in you, Lucina. Naga will find you an excellent vessel.”

 

Tiki was gone before Lucina could say anything else, before she could recover from being called a  _ vessel _ , because that was exactly what Grima and Validar had called Robin. But of course Naga wouldn’t do that. Wasn’t like that.

 

_ Even if she were, you’d still have to go through with it. You just don’t have any other options. _


	11. Chapter 11

Chrom almost punched the person shaking him out of his deep, unnatural sleep, assuming it was Grima. Then he heard “Father,” and his eyes shot open. “Lu --”

 

“No, it's me,” Morgan said, apparently unbothered by the fact that he was clearly not the child Chrom wanted -- and feared -- to see. 

 

Chrom pulled Morgan into a quick hug anyway. “So she caught you.”

 

“Yes, she did.” Morgan's voice was impressively neutral, given the subject, with only a tiny sad, tired note. 

 

Chrom leaned back, looking into his son’s face. He seemed unharmed, at least physically. “And the others?”

 

“Nah and Sumia are dead.” Now Morgan's tone was rote, as if he were reciting from a list -- a list that had nothing to do with him. “Basilio and Cynthia aren't doing well. Gaius and Maribelle are all right, Frederick hasn't realized what's going on yet, and Henry … Henry joined her. But she hasn't found Sully, Kjelle, or Kellam yet -- or the baby.”

 

“Thank Naga.” Chrom closed his eyes and let himself fall back onto the cushions where he’d been sleeping. The tent was, indeed, quite comfortable -- if only he could forget the full nature of the situation.

 

“Believe me, she has nothing to do with this.” Grima’s timing was, as usual, perfectly awful. Chrom instinctively pulled Morgan closer to him, protective, as she entered.

 

“I actually don’t have any trouble believing you on that,” Chrom said, bitterly. “I hear you’ve killed a few more of our friends.”

 

He hadn’t known Nah that well, but Chrom’s heart squeezed with memories of Sumia, who’d always thought of herself as such a klutz -- always tripping and falling off the battlefield, but pure poetry with a lance once she got on pegasus-back … 

 

“I’d say this was necessary, but it really wasn’t,” Grima said quietly. She looked at Morgan. “I’ve begged the Shepherds to surrender, so I won’t have to hurt them. What else am I supposed to do?”

 

“Have you tried not hunting them?” Chrom snapped. “Have you tried not razing Ylisse, not slaughtering thousands, not …” 

 

“Being Grima?” A cold smile. “Alas. Have you tried not being Naga’s blood? I can smell it in you, you know. It’s disgusting. If only you knew, you’d be most impressed by my forbearance …” 

 

*

 

“See what you make of this,” Grima said, entering the tent, handing Morgan a letter.

 

Morgan took it, wondering if this were a test, and if so, what he'd get if he passed -- or lose if he didn't. Cynthia was dead. Morgan almost believed Grima's protestations that she'd done everything she could to save her, and that "everything she could" had been considerable, but, well. Regardless, she was gone. Basilio had pulled through but remained convalescent; he wasn’t yet well enough to communicate much. As for the others, Morgan had seen them a few times; they were also being held in a tent on the fell dragon's back, guarded even though there was nowhere to run. Well, nowhere but straight down, but the option might appeal ... 

 

Frederick, Maribelle, and Gaius were physically all right, though rather distressed with their situation. Henry, on the other hand, had been allowed mostly-free reign over the dragon's back. Morgan had seen Risen following the mage around, quietly, a sign that Grima didn't fully trust him despite his agreement to serve her; but Henry did not seem to notice their presence, or if he did, he simply ignored him. It was smart of Grima; Morgan himself had wondered, once he calmed down from the original impression of betrayal, if Henry were simply playing lip service to his captor. Maybe they could hope that at some point, once he'd earned Grima's trust, the mage would turn his cloak and help his friends ... Morgan honestly couldn't tell. It was hard enough to figure out what Henry was thinking or planning under normal circumstances, with only lunch choices at stake.

 

Mostly, however, Morgan had been confined to his own tent, with his father -- and with frequent visits from Grima, in his mother's form. Currently Chrom was sleeping. He seemed to be sleeping quite a lot, which was understandable, since there wasn't really anything else they could do, and it was certainly more pleasant than knowing exactly where they were and what was happening around and below them. Still, Morgan could see that the entire situation wore badly on Chrom. Somewhat coldly, he'd started to wonder if perhaps they could somehow make use of that. If Grima-Robin truly cared about her family, as she claimed, perhaps they could leverage Chrom's poor condition for some advantage, though at this point Morgan wasn't even sure what he should be trying to achieve.

 

Whatever it was, though, reacting as Grima wished to this missive would probably help. Morgan looked at it, first noting that the paper was cheap; the writing on the outside -- “FOR GRIMA” -- straggled across the page. The writer was poor, uneducated, under duress that prevented them from presenting a nicer letter, or some combination thereof. Of course, Morgan could imagine that with Risen roaming the land, paper supplies were not a high priority for anyone -- but the writing showed that this wasn't simply a case of inadequate resources.

 

Then Morgan unfolded the letter and felt his heart drop out of his chest. Tucked into the fold was a tiny tuft of blue-black hair, the same color and consistency of that worn by two of the people in this room ... "They have the baby."

 

"I hate to say it, Morgan, but this is rather on you," Grima said, sighing.

 

Morgan scanned the paper quickly to find that it was not, in fact, a letter, but simply one of the fliers Grima had put out calling for his capture and his sister's. The bit about the baby was circled, repeatedly, and scribbled at the bottom ... a location, and a price, and, in clumsy block letters, "NO DRAGON. COME ALONE OR THE KID GETS IT."

  
  


"A threat written right into the thing," Morgan muttered. "So they're probably not great babysitters."

 

Grima nodded. "Of course, I imagine Kellam would not allow any such thing were he still in control of the situation ... Still, I anticipate no great trouble. I don't need a dragon to take care of such rabble."

 

Morgan looked up. "I thought you offered a guarantee of safety, not to mention worldly riches, to anyone who brought you any Shepherds."

 

Grima shrugged. "It depends on the conditions I find them in. Based on the threat, I do not have high hopes for their common sense or childcare abilities. If they make this easy on themselves, I can offer great rewards; but if they harm my daughter, I will destroy them. Perhaps slowly, if it is convenient. If not I shall simply have to vent my spleen elsewhere."

 

Morgan's heartbeat quickened. "Is that a threat? The Shepherds had nothing to do with this."

 

"No, of course not." Grima smiled and touched Morgan's cheek. "But there is an entire continent outside them ... two of them, in fact."

 

"Mother ..." Morgan had elected to continue to address Grima as such, because she seemed to like it, and he had a vague idea that staying on the dragon's good side could give him information and goodwill that he might somehow leverage into an advantage. It was unlikely -- for one thing, he wasn't sure Grima possessed any goodwill. But he thought he had already seen some results, in the form of more visits to the other Shepherds, better treatment for them. And, of course, here Grima was cluing him into the baby's status.

 

Now here he sat, dry-mouthed with horror at the flat-out promise of destruction, the casual bloodthirst -- perhaps this was the time to leverage his obedience into tangible results. "Please don't. I'm sure the baby will be fine."

 

Another shrug from Grima, accompanied by an almost sweet smile. "We'll see. I'm going to go -- I'll let you know as soon as I get back how it went. It would be nice if Kellam were still alive, wouldn't it?"

 

"Yes, it would," Morgan said, a bit numbly, but Grima was already slipping out through the tent flap.


	12. Chapter 12

The bandit camp smelled, Grima noticed with some displeasure. A collection of rough tents and lean-tos in the woods: certainly no mother would have willingly brought a child here. Not even Kellam, whose parenting skills might be slightly in doubt, would have. But she didn't have to ask whether the baby was actually here, because mere seconds after Grima appeared -- quietly, in the shadows -- little Lucina began to cry, wailing as if heartbroken, which she well might be.

 

"Shut that thing up!" shouted a man's gruff voice from the largest, nicest tent.

 

"No, don't," Grima said, stepping into the light. She didn't raise her voice, but still she was absolutely certain that everyone in the camp heard her. The baby stopped crying.

 

The brigands closed in around Grima: most of them had already been lounging out in the open, but the leader emerged from his tent. Trailing behind him was a very old, rather frightened-looking woman, and in her arms, the child. Grima ignored the unwashed men around her, staring at her daughter. She could tell, because she was a god, that little Lucina was not greatly harmed, but somewhat undernourished, dirty, and generally neglected.

 

Grima stepped forward to take the child, and the brigands' leader moved to intercept her, making as if to shove her back roughly and then reconsidering and just standing in her way.

 

"You're ... one of His servants?" the bandit asked.

 

"Grima? Close enough." She did not feel like going into the fact that she was Grima right now, in case such intelligence created a counterproductive panic; though she did feel a surge of satisfaction at the way the men around her flinched when she said the name. As if not mentioning the fell dragon helped one escape his notice; superstitious fools. "Give me the child."

 

"Gold first," said the bandit leader. He was rather stupid, Grima decided. A wiser man would have asked first for a guarantee of his own safety, gold being of little use to a corpse.

 

"There was a man carrying that baby," Grima said, pulling a pouch of coins from her coat. "What happened to him?"

 

"We killed him," the bandit said, with slight hesitation, clearly because he wasn't sure whether this was a good thing to admit, whether having murdered Kellam would increase his pay or his chances of being murdered. "Wasn't anything in the note about bodyguards, and anyway, he wouldn't stand down."

 

"Do you have the body?" Grima handed the bag of coins over -- money meant nothing to her, after all -- and beckoned for the woman holding the baby to come to her. The woman hesitated, looking to the bandit leader, and he gave her no signal, busy digging through the bag, checking that the coin was all there and real. A lesser being might have tried to haggle with these men, as the price they'd named was exorbitant, but Grima simply did not care. She just wanted her daughter. "There's more money in it for you if you do ... but I want the child, now."

 

"How much more money?" the bandit asked, completely absorbed in the bag.

 

"The child." An otherworldly note entered Grima's voice, and perhaps one might have seen some dark energy flowing around her head and hands, rather threateningly. "NOW."

 

The old woman hurried forward of her own accord -- she had more sense than her employer, it seemed; although, given her demeanor, Grima suspected that the man had kidnapped her from somewhere to force her into this job. She held the baby up as if giving an offering, her entire body shaking, and Grima took the child, who stirred sleepily in her arms and made a mewling sound.

 

For a moment everything was quiet: the bandit counted his gold, and Grima fussed over her daughter. She had brought a bottle of warm milk and set about fixing that little undernourishment problem before turning back to the rough and ready men around her.

 

“The body?” Grima prompted, with a stab of annoyance. The fell dragon ought not have to repeat herself. Perhaps she ought to lay a bit of waste to this camp, to make that point -- and to teach these idiots a lesson, however briefly they survived to practice it. They still hadn’t bothered to seek assurances of their own safety. Not that it would make much difference in the end -- the embodiment of evil was not overly concerned with honesty -- but their stupidity deserved no reward.

 

“Dumped it in the woods,” said the brigand, absently, still mesmerized by the gold.

 

“Lars and I can show you where,” offered one of the other, smarter men. “Or we’ll bring it to you -- ”

 

The only thing that could possibly draw the leader’s attention from the gold he currently had was the prospect of someone else getting the rest of the gold instead of him. He raised an axe, pointing it at the smart man. “You do that. Go drag that rotten hunk of flesh back here.”

 

“No, show me to it,” Grima said. “I can arrange transport on my own.”

 

Grima didn’t intend to handle a rotten hunk of flesh herself, especially not while carrying a baby inside her coat, but once she knew where it was, sending Risen to retrieve it would be simple.

 

“Can you, no -- ” began the bandit leader, an automatically surly response, and Grima killed him midword, dark magic lancing into his torso and piercing his heart. For a moment the camp was absolutely silent; then the body made a soft thud hitting the ground, and as if signaled the bandits all started talking at once. Displaying far more sense than any of the men in the clearing, the old woman who’d been standing beside the bandit leader nudged his corpse with her foot, glanced up at Grima, and then quietly backed away.

 

“Shut up,” Grima said, and the camp went completely quiet again. With the arm not supporting a baby, Grima pointed at the smart bandit. “You’re in charge now. Where’s the body?”

 

“You just … killed him,” said the man, clearly in shock and not actually that smart, so Grima killed him too and pointed at Lars.

 

“You’re next.”

 

“It’s this way,” Lars said, saving his own life, for now. “Follow me, er, if you please.”


	13. Chapter 13

Chrom sat with his baby daughter on his lap and felt sick with fear in a way he never had before. He’d never been inclined to fear for his own life, and while he’d worried for his children, he had confidence in the abilities of grown Lucina and Morgan to take care of themselves. They were nothing like this helpless bundle of humanity in his arms. 

 

She was sleeping at the moment; she seemed to sleep rather a lot, but perhaps that was normal. Chrom would be the first to admit that he didn’t know anything about babies. He’d spent time with little Lucina back in Ylisstol -- not as much as he would like -- but most of her actual care had fallen to a group of royal nurses. He and Robin were both busy running the country, and besides, these nurses -- some of whom Chrom thought he remembered from his own childhood -- had always been extremely offended at the suggestion that anyone but they should have the privilege of caring for a royal baby. Robin had gotten into arguments over it, actually: he remembered her coming into their bedroom one afternoon, frustrated, and declaring that it did not take three women and a priest to change a diaper.

 

As a certain smell rose in the tent on Grima’s back, Chrom began to wonder rather urgently what it  _ did _ take to change a diaper.   
  


As if summoned by the odor, Grima pushed open the tent flap and stepped in, moving easily even as the dragon’s back pitched slightly beneath them, like the deck of a ship. Ignoring the odor, Chrom automatically tightened his grip on Lucina and moved her away from the entrance, twisting to put his own body between her and Grima.

 

Grima waved a white piece of fabric at him. Chrom’s rather stressed mind could only interpret this as a flag of surrender, and he stared at the creature who had formerly been his wife, baffled. Looking at the expression on his face, Grima began to laugh.

 

“Gods’ sake, Chrom, I’m here to change her diaper.” 

 

That laugh, and those words, sounded much more like Robin than Grima, and for a moment Chrom almost relaxed. Certainly unglamorous childcare was among the last activities he’d ever imagine the fell dragon choosing to engage in. But then he glimpsed the Grimleal seal tattooed on the back of Robin’s hand -- it glowed slightly now -- and remembered where they were. He pulled away, taking the child with him. 

 

“Don’t touch her.”

 

Making no attempt to follow, Grima surveyed him with a mix of annoyance and amusement, then threw the cloth at him. Shamefully, he almost flinched. 

 

“You do it, then, but somebody has to.”

 

“Better me than you.” 

 

“Mm-hm.” Grima sounded doubtful, and raised her eyebrows as she watched Chrom set the baby down. As little as he wished to sympathize with her, he could understand her concerns: he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to lay the baby on her back or her stomach, and to make things worse, little Lucina now woke up and promptly began to cry. “Not like that, Chrom, you’ll just make a mess -- here.”

 

Before he could protest, Grima laid her hands over his and guided him through removing the dirty diaper. Leaning into him, close enough that he could feel her hair on his face, Grima murmured, half-teasing, “I’m not touching her.”

 

“You’re touching  _ me _ ,” Chrom replied, through gritted teeth: he missed his wife very much right now.

 

Grima laughed, taking the dirty diaper and incinerating it in a spark of dark flame. This did surprisingly well at improving the tent’s olfactory qualities, and Lucina even stopped crying, her tiny mouth forming an O as she contemplated the colors in the air. Smiling, Grima traced colors and lights through the air before a rapt audience of one, baby Lucina clapping and giggling at the pretty sight.

 

Chrom’s heart ached as he watched, seeing that motherly smile on Robin’s face again -- and it didn’t help that he hadn’t yet figured out how to turn the scrap of cloth he held into a functional diaper. As Lucina grabbed at the insubstantial lights before her, looking confused when her hands went through them, Robin -- no, Grima -- gave Chrom a certain look, and the cloth in his hand slithered between his fingers and wrapped itself around Lucina of its own accord.

 

“I’m afraid you’re not qualified for the nursemaid’s job,” Grima said to Chrom, flicking her sparkling fingers in front of Lucina’s face so that the baby grabbed them with tiny fists.

 

“You’re a monster,” Chrom snapped, grabbing Lucina and pulling her away from the creature that had once been her mother. He almost had to remind himself of this fact, but the real Robin had never possessed such powerful magic, and there were always the cold scales beneath them as inescapable reminders of just where they were.

 

Snatched from her entertainment, little Lucina began to cry, and Grima frowned, eyes turning dark and empty. Chrom wondered suddenly if he wasn’t putting his daughter in more danger by objecting -- in the midst of Grima’s domain like this, all he could hope to do if Grima did turn on the baby was shield her bodily, and he rather doubted that would help for long. He glanced at the tent flap, thinking of running, but there was nowhere to go out there. Except down, but that wasn’t an option. Setting aside the probability that Grima would catch him as before, while he might have been willing to jump in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t abandon Morgan and Lucina -- and older Lucina -- like that.

 

Still, he felt a surge of defiance: he’d been sitting here like a good little prisoner for days, leaving only when  _ permitted _ , usually to visit his fellow captives. For his own morale if nothing less, he desperately wanted to deny Grima something; and every parental instinct in his body said that this creature could not be allowed near his daughter.

 

“Chrom, be reasonable,” Grima said, in exactly Robin’s tones of plaintive concern. "I'm trying to meet you in the middle here, leaving Lucina in your custody, but you plainly don't have any idea how to take care of her. I understand that you have worries of your own, considering the circumstances, and I'm trying to accommodate them. I know you don't believe me, but I am not going to hurt her, and I want her to be safe and happy."

 

"How can she be safe and happy here, among these monsters?" If there was anything left of Robin in there, surely the safety of her infant daughter would bring it out.

 

"Far better than in the burning world below," Grima said, almost ruefully. Her eyes narrowed. "I won't allow anything to harm her -- and I'm afraid that includes your incompetence, Chrom.

 

Chrom opened his mouth to retort, his arms tightening around the baby -- Lucina didn't like this; still squalling, she tried to wriggle free -- when the tent flap opened abruptly, Morgan silhouetted in the opening.

 

"Is Lucina all right?" he said, looking urgently at Chrom: he must have heard the baby crying. Behind him stood two Risen who must have guarded him as he visited their captive friends.

 

"Your father and I were just discussing custody of your sister," Grima said, and Morgan glanced at her but waited for Chrom to nod before he entered the tent properly. Gods only knew what he'd planned to do if Lucina were actually in danger -- but he probably had a better plan than Chrom himself did, Chrom had to admit.

 

Morgan sat down beside Chrom, reaching out a hand to comfort the baby. Chrom loosened his own grip, feeling a bit more secure now. He wished Morgan hadn't been captured and feared for his safety, but Chrom also appreciated his son's insights. Morgan had his mother's tactical mind and her training, both of which made him better at navigating the situation than Chrom. Though Chrom didn't completely agree with Morgan's current strategy -- appeasing Grima while he awaited some opportunity for meaningful rebellion -- he couldn't deny that it was just as likely to get results as his own futile defiance. Chrom just didn't have the stomach for it.

 

Now Morgan looked between Chrom and Grima and frowned. "What's wrong? Besides, you know, the whole 'prisoners' thing."

 

"Your father and I are both concerned about the baby's safety," Grima said, sounding very reasonable.

 

"I don't want her anywhere near Lucina," Chrom said, sounding less reasonable -- if you didn’t know the circumstances.

 

“I'm aware, but -- well, first, I don't intend to let anyone stand between me and my daughter, including you, my love." Ah: there was the slightly threatening note in Grima's voice that Chrom had grown so familiar with. He wondered what she'd do if he continued to insist on keeping her away from Lucina. Hurt Cordelia and the other prisoners? Pry the baby from his arms? He was afraid they were going to have to find out. "But, more pertinently, I don't think you're prepared to take care of her, Chrom. Listen to her cry -- you don’t even know how to hold her.”

 

Chrom adjusted his grip on Lucina, stroking her back, and she began to calm down. He glared at Grima. “Holding, I can do.”

 

“But not the rest of it. Just -- let me help you.” Robin’s voice sounded genuinely plaintive now. “Like I did earlier. I miss her, I miss you -- I miss my family.”

 

Chrom’s throat felt swollen: she did sound exactly like Robin, the sorrow in her voice ringing perfectly true, and he missed Robin so badly … “Robin, if you’re in there, then you understand why I have to do this.”

 

“But I’m  _ right here _ !” Robin-Grima cried, in something like frustration.

 

“And so is Grima,” Morgan murmured.

 

“Yes,” said Robin-Grima. “And Grima loves you too.”

 

She smiled at the looks of shock and repulsion on Morgan’s and Chrom’s faces, stood, and with a polite bow, left the tent.

 

“Oh, Mother,” Morgan whispered into the following silence, and to his considerable surprise, Chrom saw tears running down his son’s face. At Chrom’s shocked look, Morgan explained, “She’s still in there. I wasn’t sure before, but now … And if it hurts  _ us _ to be forced to sit and watch this, then she …”

 

Chrom shook his head, feeling moisture spring to his own eyes. It was so hard, to balance his love for his wife with the creature that inhabited her body, the grinning marionette she’d become. Validar had tried to control her too, and they’d defeated him, together -- if they could do the same to Grima … But Validar was a man, a mere mortal, and Grima so much more. And it had been weeks. Still …

 

“I have faith in your mother,” Chrom said: a belief he’d never thought to abandon, but it was hard to say it here and now. “If anyone can fight back against Grima, it’s her. But she can’t do it alone. She needs us -- we have to find a way to help her.”

 

“If worst comes to worst,” Morgan said, “at least Lucina’s still out there, with Falchion. I know she can defeat Grima -- and free Mother.”

 

His voice faltered on those last words.


	14. Chapter 14

Exhausted and grieving, Lucina stood at the site of the Awakening, Tiki and Libra at her side. The exhaustion came from the long, hurried, harried trek to Mount Prism: Risen had chased them all the way, and even gotten ahead of them, forcing them to fight their way through to the mountain. Thus the grief: Gregor, Ricken, Yarne, Stahl, and Laurent were gone, fallen in battle on the way -- Lucina could not even say for sure whether they were dead or if the Risen had dragged them away alive. And she had come to accept now that Morgan’s entire expedition was lost. She didn’t even know whether to hope they were alive, as that would place them at Grima’s nonexistent mercy.

 

But hope remained: Lucina held it in her hands now, the Fire Emblem on one side and Falchion on the other. The Emblem felt cold under her fingers, offering no indication of the power it contained. Years of strife over something so small … Robin had passed it to Lucina when the Hierophant appeared -- the last time she’d seen her mother alive. In the moment, Lucina had barely paid attention, too relieved at Validar’s defeat, but perhaps Robin had suspected the twist to come, or maybe she was just cautious. Whatever her reasoning, Robin had saved them all with that, her final action.

 

_ Or she  _ will _ have saved us all, if I do my part. _ Lucina took a deep breath and turned to her companions.

 

“If I fail …” Those weren’t the words she’d intended to say, not at this vital juncture, but something in her demanded they had a back up plan. Lissa and Owain remained at camp, though Lucina didn’t think herself prideful in believing that they both had long odds of success if she fell.

 

“You won’t fail,” Tiki said, with surprising certainty.

 

Libra nodded. “Naga will see your worth, my lady. Trust in her.”

 

“Thank you,” Lucina said, almost overwhelmed by the faith her companions placed in her. She pushed the emotion away and stepped towards the altar. “I … will see you soon.”

 

The pain of the Awakening, of Naga’s cleansing fire, was like nothing Lucina had ever felt before. She had been injured, sometimes grievously, but this agony burned on a different level, as if bypassing her body and scorching directly at her soul. Lucina would have gritted her teeth, but her body felt very distant; she was not sure she could feel her teeth. Instead she gathered her determination. She had felt a grunt of pain escape her, but she would not scream; there was more to her than this pain, even as all-encompassing as it seemed. Everyone was counting on her, not only her friends but everyone in Ylisse and beyond who had thus far survived Grima’s ravages. For the sake of everyone she knew, everyone she had ever known and  _ would _ ever know, she had to stand fast. The world around her depended on her courage and fortitude: every child taking their first steps, every flower blooming under the sun, every good and beautiful thing that Grima hated.

 

The pain faded, and now Lucina saw before her the divine dragon’s form: impossibly tall and elegant, raiment flowing around her. Lucina’s first instinct was to fall to her knees, but she seemed to have misplaced her body slightly, and could not find her knees. Surprisingly enough, this did not worry her; she found herself filled with a sense of peace and calm strength.

 

“Be welcome, Awakener. Your heart has been tested and deemed worthy. Cleansed in my fire, your desire has been proven to burn the stronger.”

 

“Then you will grant me the power to defeat Grima?” Lucina asked. The calm flowing over her helped hold back a wave of relief that might otherwise have buckled her knees, if she was in fact still connected to them. “Your godly power?”

 

“Yes. But know this: I am no god.”

 

“But, milady, you are the divine dragon!” Disquiet made it through Lucina’s fading serenity.

 

“So do sons of man name me. But I am no creator. I do not possess the power of making or unmaking. And neither does Grima. Neither of us bears the power to destroy the other utterly.”

 

“Then the power you will grant me …” Lucina hoped she didn’t sound ungrateful.

 

“With my blessing, thou may draw forth Falchion’s true might. The blade of the exalts shall again strike like the dragon’s fang. Your strength will then be my equal.”

 

“I’ll be your Vessel,” Lucina said, dry-mouthed, thinking of her mother’s face as the Hierophant’s spell took her.

 

“I possess neither need nor desire to enter your world as Grima does.” Now Naga spoke softly, almost sympathetically. “Your will shall remain your own, Awakener.”

 

Relief again, but not as all-encompassing this time. Lucina had been prepared to give up anything --  _ anything _ \-- to save this world as she had failed to save her own. But … “If I can’t destroy Grima …”

 

“Sleep alone can be your victory. Just as your ancestor put the fell dragon to sleep a millennia ago. But you must weaken him first. Only as the final blow can my power be used to bind his.”

 

Lucina’s thoughts flashed forward as if she herself traveled through time: a thousand years in the future, the land burning again, some other battered young hero carrying the sword currently in her hand. The same pattern. The same suffering.  _ Inevitable. We just keep staving it off. Like when I ran to this timeline: bought myself a couple years. _ “Is there no way to destroy Grima permanently?”

 

Naga seemed to hesitate, something Lucina would not have expected from divinity. “There is, perchance, a power that could end Grima. However … ‘Twould be his own.”

 

“I have his blood.” Lucina had never thought she would be glad for Robin’s tainted blood running through her veins. “I must carry some of his power.”

 

A moment’s silence. Then: “Not enough. The fell blood within you is weak, long overpowered by the side you favor.”

 

“If I could make it stronger ...” Lucina suggested.

 

From the beginning, Naga’s image had appeared impassive, and it did not move, but it almost seemed to frown. “To do so would be to take Grima’s evil into yourself. Even were I to advocate a course so antithetical to myself, I could not aid you in it. Only Grima himself could bestow such power.”

 

Naga’s voice became almost wry as she added: “I would not advise asking him for it.”

 

Lucina bowed her head -- her body was coming back to her. “I understand, milady. I apologize.”

 

She had been so briefly excited by the prospect of destroying Grima forever … but a thousand years was a considerable stretch of time. The world could rest, and flourish, and if in another millennia these sacrifices had to be made again to keep Grima at bay, then the line of the exalts would serve their people.

 

“Now come,” said Naga. “There is little time.”

 

“Of course,” Lucina said at once. “Where can I find Grima?”

 

“Grima lingers over his Table. I know not why. You shall find him there, well fortified. Good luck, Awakener.”

 

_ Good luck _ . As Naga faded, Lucina wondered if the divine dragon could pray, and if so, to whom.

 

*

 

Panne’s “Yes?” when she opened the flap of her tent was slightly sharp, and Olivia’s mind immediately drew from this the conclusion that the taguel hated her and resented her intrusion. As she tried to internally argue against this, she completely forgot her carefully-rehearsed statement of sympathy, and Panne began to grow impatient. “Do you need something?”

 

“Um, sorry!” Olivia burst out. “I mean, I wanted to say sorry. About your son.”

 

Panne’s eyes narrowed. “Did you cause him to fall? Betray him?”

 

Olivia felt herself go from blushing to blanched at the accusation. “N-no … at least, I don’t think so … I suppose I could have done a better job as a soldier, but, I mean, I wasn’t even on the field that day …”

 

“Then, even by human standards, you do not owe me an apology.”

 

It took a moment for Olivia to understand what Panne meant; most of her mind was now devoted to a single, stupid, thought:  _ This is going so badly. Gods, what did I expect? _ “I didn’t mean … I just wanted to offer my sympathy. As someone who knows what you’re going through.”

 

Every day when she woke up, Olivia faced anew the reality that Inigo was gone: her son whom she’d known so briefly, but couldn’t help loving anyway. She’d envied his confidence, the easy smile with which he spoke to others, and for a while that very confidence had made her wonder if they could possibly be related after all. But then she’d spied him dancing, watched him turn red when he saw her there, and known that they weren’t so different after all; and it had comforted her to think that if he could work past his shyness, so could she. It had comforted her even more to imagine them doing it together, her weak and feeble self and this remarkable young man she’d somehow given birth to. And now that was gone, and thinking of it that way only made Olivia feel worse, as if she’d betrayed Inigo herself by grieving for the possibilities of their future and not for him as a person. As if she had failed to love him correctly and the gods had punished her by taking him away, though she simultaneously felt that such a schema vastly overestimated her own importance to both Inigo and the gods: more arrogance for which she deserved to suffer. These thoughts didn’t make sense, but so few of Olivia’s did.

 

And her words didn’t seem to have soothed Panne at all. The taguel looked down at her, stony-faced. “You have no idea what I am ‘going through.’ Do not compare my loss to yours, human; you have your entire species to comfort you, to  _ relate _ to you, and I have no one.”

 

“I -- you’re right. I’m sorry.” Olivia winced to find herself apologizing again, after Panne had been so unimpressed the first time. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she devoted all her being to not shedding them. All she could do now was hope to escape the conversation with some shred of dignity intact; at the moment she could think of nothing worse than bawling like a child before an indifferent Panne.

 

But Panne paused, her face softening incrementally, though Olivia’s sight was too blurry to notice. “No. Your words came from a place of kindness, and my response was cruel. I may have little use for your sympathy, but I can appreciate the impulse to offer it, and I thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome!” Those were not the right words, not at all; they came automatically. And Olivia kept talking, even as she regretted every word out of her mouth, as if she could not stop herself. “But -- it’s not over yet! Those fliers said Grima wanted the Shepherds alive. Yarne could still be alive! He might be safe, just imprisoned …”

 

“A proud taguel warrior would never allow himself to be taken alive.”


	15. Chapter 15

Inigo began tapping on his leg in time with Cordelia’s pacing, creating an irregular little rhythm that he found soothing. Eventually, though, she noticed, and stomped over to him. “What are you doing?”

 

“Just … er … ” Inigo stopped. “Just passing the time.”

 

“If you’re bored,” Cordelia said, bitingly, suddenly reminding Inigo quite a bit of her daughter -- though that was not a road he wished his thoughts to go down, “you can help me find a way to escape.”

 

They’d had this conversation before, many times, so Inigo did not bother to point out the futility of attempting to escape from deep in Grima’s Table, through the maze of stone and the endless Risen; nor did he mention that if they did manage to flee, it would be into a world ravaged by Grima, where their chances of reuniting with the rest of the Shepherds were practically nonexistent -- if they could find the Shepherds, so could Grima. It was much simpler to just stop tapping and sit in awkward, sullen silence.

 

When a commotion from the corridor broke that silence, Inigo felt a wave of relief, despite how unlikely it was that the noise signaled anything good for him or Cordelia.

 

“Get your disgusting hands off me, you filthy brutes!”

 

“They’re  _ Risen _ , Twinkles. They can’t understand you.”

 

“No, but I can, and it hurts my feelings.”

 

The last voice was Grima; the others Inigo couldn’t put a name to, but Cordelia clearly could: “Maribelle and Gaius,” she whispered, listening intently.

 

“I don’t think you have to whisper,” Inigo whispered back. “They’re going to be here in -- ”

 

Grima swept into the room, followed by Risen half-restraining, half-carrying the Shepherds: Maribelle and Gaius indeed, but also Basilio and Frederick.

 

“You have feelings now?” said Basilio. The khan’s Risen escort truly carried him, and Inigo could see why, swathed in bandages as he was; but his single eye remained sharp.

 

“Where’s Chrom?” Cordelia demanded, immediately. They hadn’t seen the prince for about a week, a significant absence that had bothered Cordelia considerably.

 

“Hello, Cordelia,” Grima said, false-polite. “It’s nice to see you again, too. How are you? I’m well. I brought some more of your friends, by the way. I’m sure they can’t wait to say hello. No need to thank me, though it was a considerable effort; it’s the least I could do. Oh, and Kellam’s dead.”

 

Cordelia’s mouth had been open, ready to retort; at the news of her husband’s death it clicked shut.  White-faced, she looked like she’d been slapped. Actually, Inigo doubted slapping her would have produced anything but further furious argument -- certainly not this shocked silence.

 

“I didn’t even kill him,” Grima said, her tone casual as could be. “Fool man. Well, that’s what you get for running. I have the body, if you want it, but I have to say, it’s not in very good shape.”

 

Maribelle pulled away from her Risen captors and came to Cordelia’s side, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. Thinking Cordelia broken, lost in grief, Grima moved on, eyes roaming to Inigo, who felt himself blushing under her hungry gaze. Shameful cowardice, but it was bad enough when normal people stared at him, and the last thing he wanted was Grima’s attention …

 

In a single motion, Cordelia shook off Maribelle’s hand, rushed Grima, and stabbed her in the back with what Inigo registered only after the fact as a jagged scrap of metal, scavenged somewhere in their captivity. The improvised blade went deep, low on Grima’s back, aimed inwards for the kidneys. Grima whirled, force blasting out from her outstretched hands, throwing Cordelia away and catching others more lightly: Inigo and Maribelle staggered back, and the Risen holding Frederick rattled audibly, while the knight’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched. A moment passed, a beat of shocked silence. Then Grima reached for the wound, pulling out the blade -- blood poured down her back -- and examining it coolly.

 

“In the back, Cordelia, really?” she said calmly. “How dishonorable.”

 

“It is not dishonorable to use all the resources at one’s disposal when fighting an opponent who holds a vast advantage,” Maribelle declared as she moved cautiously to help Cordelia up.

 

Grima shrugged. “I’ll have to ta ke your word for it. It was still quite rude. And to think I came here to invite you all to a party.”

 

“I dread to think why you’d be throwing parties,” Gaius said.

 

“Just for fun!” Grima said, voice bright and cheerful. Then she raised the bloody scrap of metal to her mouth and licked her own blood off it, grinning madly. “What else are we supposed to do while the world burns?”

 

For a moment, nobody had an answer. Then Basilio offered, “Put it out?”

 

Grima laughed and laughed.

 

*

 

Yarne had allowed himself to be taken alive.

 

Well, he hadn’t had a  _ lot _ of choice in the matter, but there had been a moment, when the Risen surrounded him, when he could have impaled himself on their spears, but he hadn’t, and then they’d taken hold of him and dragged him away.

 

The Shepherds all maintained that being captured by Grima would be a fate worse than death, but Yarne wasn’t so sure. (Of course, he couldn’t really give dying a fair shake, never having experienced it, but he always placed it  _ dead  _ last on the list of things he’d like to do.) The Risen brought him to their camp, a nightmarish dead landscape where he glimpsed corpses rising into fresh monsters and swarming out across the land. 

 

Here, Yarne reunited with Laurent. Even with both of them bound and surrounded by Risen, Yarne felt incalculably glad to see his fellow Shepherd again. At least he wouldn’t have to go through this alone.

 

“They’re not going to kill us,” Laurent said, in the brief moment they had together before the Risen bundled them onto separate pegasi for the journey south. “If that was what they intended, it would be a waste of effort to transport us like this. Of course, it’s always possible that they intend to torture us, whether for information or for their own gratification, or that they have inhuman motives we cannot fully comprehend.”

 

This further analysis rather dampened the relief Yarne had felt at Laurent’s initial statement, but it was still good to have him there. If that made Yarne a coward, for being glad of a comrade’s capture, so be it. It would not be the only thing contributing to that descriptor.

 

Hours stretched into days on pegasus-back; the Risen and their undead steeds required no rest or refreshment and thus Yarne received none, except for a few swallows of water midair and what broken sleep he could snatch. Sometimes he caught glimpses of Laurent with his own escort, presumably receiving similar treatment. Once, living wyvern-riders rose from the ground ahead of them, making the Risen rear back. Yarne thought of rescue, briefly; then a contingent of mounted Risen went to meet the strangers while another group, including Yarne’s and Laurent’s mounts, veered off. The sounds of battle rose behind them, but not for long. Yarne decided the strangers had probably been bandits. He hoped they’d been bandits, so he didn’t have to feel bad for them.

 

By the time they got to Grima’s Table, Yarne was exhausted in mind and body, starving, sore -- he could barely lift his head. He’d have no chance of fighting his captors like this, but then had he ever?

 

The plateau rose out of the desert, aptly named. Yarne slumped forward at the sight of it. He’d hoped never to see that vista again, and the intervening time hadn’t improved the view: dark clouds roiled around it, and armies of Risen filled the air and ground like swarms of locusts. Imagining how many dead it must have taken to produce so many … Fortunately, Yarne’s mind was too foggy to follow that line of thought.

 

One thing had gotten better, though: Yarne didn’t see the fell dragon itself in the air over the plateau. Probably that only meant that the horror was off sowing destruction somewhere else, but he tried to take heart from Grima’s absence.

 

They landed on a wide ledge sticking out from the plateau’s side, where a tunnel into the stone gaped dark like a dragon’s maw. There, surrounded by an honor guard of Risen, waited Robin.

 

For a moment as the Risen behind him hoisted him off the pegasus, Yarne felt all-encompassing relief. He almost fell to his knees. Surely it would all be all right now that Lucina’s mother was here. He didn’t think about what it meant for her to be here, walking unharmed among the Risen, smiling at him with no concern for his condition; he was too exhausted for any of this to get through to him.

 

But Laurent wasn’t. Though he had to be just as tired and bleary as Yarne, he looked around and said, “Grima, I presume?”

 

Yarne lifted his head and stared at Robin, who only laughed.

 

“Clever boy,” she said. “You really are your mother’s son. Though I don’t know if she would have figured it out unless I wrote it in one of her books.”

 

Laurent said nothing in response, just watched Grima, warily but not fearfully. Yarne admired his composure. He felt certain that Robin -- or Grima, or both -- could see his knees shaking. His hands would shake too, but they’d been bound for days, and he couldn’t really feel them anymore.

 

Grima clapped her hands. “You two have arrived just in time! I’m having a party, and you’ll be the guests of honor.”

 

“A party?” Yarne said, feeling very stupid. Gods, what he wouldn’t give for a good night’s sleep.

 

“A feast,” Grima specified, and Yarne knew from her grin that she heard his stomach growl mightily. Probably there were folks in Regna Ferox who’d heard it. He amended his earlier thought: what he wouldn’t give for a good meal.

 

“Take Laurent,” Grima ordered the Risen, pointing towards the tunnel. The undead soldiers grabbed Laurent by the arms and marched him to it. “You’ll be joining the feast a bit late, for dramatic effect. Call it fashionably late. I’m sure your father won’t scold you.”

 

“Father,” Laurent breathed, not questioning, not asking if he were alive: he wouldn’t need to, already having drawn the most logical conclusion from Grima’s words. They’d all thought Frederick was dead with the rest of Morgan’s expedition. No such reunion awaited Yarne, of course; he’d seen Stahl die with his own eyes.

 

Then the Risen dragged Laurent away, and Yarne realized too late that he should have said something, should have offered Laurent some shred of comfort as Laurent had tried to do for him when they’d first been captured. Perhaps the news about his father would suffice. And then Yarne could have used some reassurance himself, because Grima had turned to him, eyes sparkling, smile showing too many teeth.

 

“As for you,” she said, “I’ve got plans for you. We’re going to have so much fun!”


	16. Chapter 16

Walking into Chrom’s room, Grima frowned, the expression almost turning into a pout. “I hoped you would dress up.”

 

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in those,” Chrom said. The clothes Grima had provided for him were beautiful, luxurious, fit for a prince -- and were also emblazoned with Grimleal symbols. Chrom would have rather attended Grima’s party naked. (He would have rather not attended Grima’s party at all.) Fortunately, he had at least his travel-stained Shepherd’s clothes. They weren’t suitable for a formal event, not really, but Chrom had barely respected such dress codes back in Ylisstol; he didn’t intend to start now.

 

“You would, in fact,” Grima said, almost thoughtfully. Chrom’s heart skipped a beat to look at her: he’d never thought to see his wife in Grimleal robes. Flattering enough -- Robin could have worn a potato sack and he still would have found her beautiful -- but the picture was so jarringly  _ wrong _ . Looking at her, Chrom felt like he’d caught an unpleasant glimpse into a world where Robin’s mother had never fled Validar, where Robin had grown up Grimleal, secure in the knowledge of her glorious purpose, and she and Chrom himself had known each other only as enemies, if at all. He should have been accustomed by now to seeing a stranger in his wife’s skin, but that didn’t make the pit in his stomach any smaller.

 

“You look like Validar,” Chrom said, harshening his voice to make it clear that he didn’t mean it as a compliment. Grima didn’t take it that way, either, putting a shocked hand to her chest and gazing at him with wounded eyes.

 

“And here I always hoped I took after my mother, not that hideous old man.”

 

“I figured you’d adore him,” Chrom said, still harsh. “He Awakened you.”

 

“ _ Almost _ Awakened me. I had to do it myself in the end.” Robin’s expression turned to a terrifying cold fury, an expression of such violent loathing that Chrom felt an instinctive burst of fear for its target, even knowing Validar was both dead and undeserving. “And he hurt you.”

 

Chrom said nothing, unsure how to feel about that response. He should have found it reassuring, probably, a sign that Robin’s love for him still existed somewhere in that body, but seeing such a chilling reaction on his behalf was definitely disquieting. The real Robin wouldn’t have been capable of such hatred -- would she?

 

Robin-Grima stepped forward, closing the gap between her and Chrom, and reached up to touch his face. He almost flinched, but held himself still, realizing only too late that he should have used the movement to recoil from her touch. Instead her fingers brushed gently across his cheek. “When we became one, I recovered all of my memories from Lucina’s timeline. I remember Validar killing you -- Validar using me to kill you. He could move worlds for me, grovel before me, and I still would not forgive him for that. If we hadn’t already killed him, I would have rewarded him for his service by making him the first to die screaming at my feet.”

 

Chrom pulled back, disconcerted by the suggestion that something in the cold Hierophant -- Robin of Lucina’s timeline -- had still mourned him. The Hierophant had tried to kill him, hadn’t she? Or had she, too, been trapped inside her own body, dominated by Grima, just as his Robin was now?

 

Robin’s expression changed with disturbing abruptness, switching suddenly to a cheery grin. “But let’s not speak of such unpleasant things. We have a party to get to!”

 

“What are we celebrating, exactly?” Chrom asked, wary.

 

“Well, we’re all here and alive,” Grima began, counting reasons on her fingers like a child. “And I’ve a plan to deal with our daughter. And Lucina survived the Awakening.”

 

Chrom’s heart pounded. This was news to him. “Lucina performed the Awakening?”

 

“Yes.” Grima frowned slightly. “I would have preferred that she never have the opportunity to attempt the ritual, but since she did, I am glad she didn’t die in the process.”

 

Chrom felt light inside for the first time since Grima had taken his wife. Lucina was alive, and she’d cleared one more hurdle on the road to victory. Now all she had to do was make it to Grima’s Table and face the fell dragon. A tall order, sure, but look at what she’d already done: traveling between timelines, surviving Grima’s rise when her parents could not, commanding the Shepherds in a broken world. Chrom had absolute faith that Lucina not only could but would bring down Grima.

 

Except … 

 

“So,” Chrom said, trying to sound casual. “Your plan to … deal with Lucina. What is it?”

 

Grima laughed. “You should stick to swordplay, Chrom. You’re very bad at espionage.”

 

“You might as well tell me,” Chrom said, trying to channel Morgan. “It’s not like I’ll ever be able to tell anyone, right?”

 

Grima shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. I do not intend to be one of those idiots who falls from excess monologuing. But don’t worry yourself: my plan is completely non-lethal.”

 

Chrom would have argued further, but at that moment they walked into the banquet hall. Everyone else was already present: Henry sat at the far end of the table, with Basilio, Maribelle, Gaius, Frederick, Cordelia, and Inigo arranged around it. Risen stood behind each seat like servants at a proper feast. The chair at the near end of the table stood taller than the others, like a throne, and remained empty, as did the seat on its right. To its left sat Morgan. Wine had been poured, but the plates were empty, though there was food on the table; it seemed no one wanted to touch it. Two chairs still sat empty, one beside Frederick and one next to Inigo.

 

Grima took Chrom’s hand and swept into the room, smiling broadly. Chrom did manage to ruin the victorious image slightly by dragging his feet, forcing her to pull him along with her rather than walking at her side. Risen pulled out their chairs for them, and Grima sat at the end of the table. Chrom considered remaining standing, just to spite her, but Morgan caught his eye and shook his head, so he sank gracelessly into his chair.

 

“I’m so glad you all could join us,” said Grima, smiling mercilessly at the “guests” around the table. “I hope we’ll have a very nice time tonight.”

 

“Why are there two extra chairs?” Chrom said immediately. He sounded tactless and blunt after Grima’s honeyed words, and he didn’t care.

 

“We have some special guests who will be joining us fashionably late.” Grima’s smile turned wolfish. So she’d captured more of the Shepherds. Perhaps she intended that they should all sit in suspense until she chose to reveal her new prisoners, wondering who they were, simultaneously hoping and fearing to see their loved ones, because their presence would mean imprisonment but their absence could mean death. Chrom wasn’t immune: he gritted his teeth and thought,  _ Not Lucina. If she’d caught Lucina, she’d be crowing about it. Unless that was what she meant by having a plan to celebrate …  _

 

“You can’t call this a proper banquet,” said Maribelle, in her most aristocratic tones. “The table settings are rudimentary, the service is atrocious, and the goblets are on the wrong side.”

 

For an instant Chrom saw Grima’s eyebrows draw together in sincere annoyance. Then they smoothed out again into her standard faintly amused expression. “I’m sorry for not consulting you in my arrangements, Maribelle. I should have placed you in charge of planning, shouldn’t I?”

 

“Or Frederick,” said Morgan, lightly, as if trying to defuse the situation. “I’m sure his attention to detail would have produced an excellent outcome.”

 

Frederick almost jumped at the sound of his name: he’d been watching Chrom as if looking for some command that Chrom couldn’t give. He glanced at Grima with hatred in his eyes and said, “I’m afraid I don’t serve you. Unlike some of us” -- he cast his gaze towards Henry -- “I know exactly where my loyalties lie.”

 

“With the royal family?” Grima laughed. “And what am I if not royalty? I’m thinking of moving us all to Ylisstol, by the way. We can be a proper court.”

 

Chrom couldn’t decide whether he would find it unbearable to see Grima waltzing about his home as if she owned the place or if he hoped she’d go through with the move. It would be easier to try and escape Ylisstol, with its narrow streets and myriad hiding places, than the stark and empty Table. And if it served Grima, the palace in which he’d grown up -- which held so many memories of his family, of Emmeryn -- might be allowed to stand, though he hated thinking like that; it stank of surrender.

 

“I know where my loyalties lie too!” Henry added brightly, looking at Frederick. “We match; we should be friends.”

 

Frederick made a sound of disgust and looked away.

 

“Frederick, Frederick,  _ Sir _ Frederick,” Grima said, wheedling. “Why the long face? You almost look like you’re not enjoying my hospitality. And what kind of host would I be if I let that stand? Fortunately, I have something that should cheer you up.”

 

Grima raised her hands and clapped, once. Two Risen sprang into action, pulling open a set of double doors behind Henry, from which two more escorted in a prisoner.

 

“Laurent!” Frederick cried, and sprang to his feet, but his legs gave out under him: he still had not regained their full use after his injuries before capture.

 

Chrom stood, knowing he’d never reach Frederick’s side in time; but Gaius, sitting next to Frederick, jumped up to catch him. (The Risen behind Frederick’s chair made no such attempt.) They both sank to the ground, Gaius gasping, “Easy, big guy. You’re excited, sure, but he’ll still be there in a minute.”

 

“Father?” Laurent broke free of his captors and ran to Frederick’s side, crouching over him. “You’re injured?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Frederick said, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Are you hurt?”

 

Laurent shook his head. “The journey was taxing, but I am all right. But Yarne -- “

 

“Shhh,” said Grima. “I’d rather you didn’t spoil my second surprise.”

 

Laurent looked up at Grima, and then, with defiance in his eyes, spoke slowly and clearly: “Yarne was captured with me, and I don’t know what they’ve done with him. We were separated on arrival.”

 

Grima sighed. “Well, I suppose the bunny’s out of the bag. I’m afraid our bestial friend is still getting ready for his grand appearance, but he should be here soon enough. Now, if everyone will take their seats, shall we eat?”

 

Someone’s stomach growled loudly. Laurent looked down, embarrassed. “I was not permitted to eat on the journey, and I confess to feeling rather ravenous. And it is unlikely that Grima went to all the trouble of gathering us here to poison us.”

 

“Of course not,” Grima said. “Most of you have been eating my food for weeks. If I’d meant to poison you, I would have done it already.”

 

“Unless you wished to wait for a suitably grand occasion,” Laurent countered, but his heart wasn’t in it: his eyes kept lingering on the food laid out on the table. He reached out to Frederick, and he and Gaius together tried to get the knight back into his chair, but they weren’t up to the task: Laurent’s knees kept buckling, and Gaius wasn’t at the peak of his strength either. Chrom went to help them, and together they heaved Frederick back to his seat, his face flushed with humiliation. The Risen could have helped them, of course, but no one wanted to ask for Grima’s aid, or to volunteer to be touched by those creatures.

 

Laurent sat beside his father and wasted no time in portioning himself out a meal, though he tried to hide his eagerness. Chrom hesitated, unwilling to return to his seat beside Grima.

 

“Chrom, lad,” Basilio said, seeing his confusion. “Come over here and sit by me. Tell me, have you had any news from the war?”

 

A noticeable snub to Grima, the obvious source of such news. Chrom complied gratefully, taking the second empty chair, and told Basilio and the others what Grima had said about Lucina and the Awakening. He didn’t mention that Grima had some plan to stop Lucina; they all had enough bad news without him sharing something so vague. Then Cordelia asked about the details of the Awakening itself, and Chrom found himself recounting what he knew, aided by Morgan and Laurent, who had read of it. They almost started to speculate on Lucina’s next moves, but Basilio looked at Grima and said, “Not in mixed company.”

 

Still, the ice had been broken, and conversation and feasting spread across the table. The former notably excluded Henry and Grima, and Grima touched none of the meal, simply sipped her wine and watched silently, eyes sharp. Henry, meanwhile, seemed bored, if unbothered by his exclusion, playing with his food.

 

Finally Grima stood up and clinked a fork against her wine glass, calling for attention. For a moment everyone ignored her: they’d grown so caught up in their conversation that it was easy to forget where they were, and it felt so good to forget. If he didn’t look too closely Chrom could think he was back in the Shepherds’ barracks, eating among friends.

 

Then Grima’s voice cut through their conversation, possessing a clarity and weight that had to be supernatural, though it wasn’t very loud. “ _ Excuse me _ . I hate to interrupt your fun, but it is time for our main course.”

 

Everyone sank back in their chairs -- Chrom remained next to Inigo rather than returning to sit by Grima. Gaius looked surprised, a surprise Chrom shared: there was so much food already on the table; how could they be missing a main course? There wasn’t even anywhere to put it.

 

Morgan frowned, eyes darting between Grima and the table, and he started to say something, but Grima put down her glass, grinning, and said, “Bring him in!”

 

Before anyone could question that pronoun, another pair of double doors crashed open and in walked six Risen carrying a huge silver platter, some eight or nine feet long, above their heads. The Risen already at the table picked up serving dishes and pitchers of wine, making room for it. Even looking only at the bottom of the platter, Chrom had a bad feeling:  _ it’s large enough for a man …  _

 

But it wasn’t a man. The Risen slid the platter onto the table, and on it, amid a bed of garnish and vegetables, lay Yarne in his beast form, trussed like a prize hog, an apple in his mouth. He was alive: his terrified eyes darted around.

 

Half the table, including Chrom, leapt up with cries of alarm. Looking like he might be sick, Inigo said, “We can’t -- ”

 

Grima laughed and laughed.

 

Morgan grabbed a knife from the table and leaned over Yarne. A vague and half-panicked worry crossed Chrom’s mind --  _ he’s been spending a lot of time with Grima  _ \-- one he immediately dismissed as he saw Morgan sawing into Yarne’s bonds. Realizing what he was doing, Laurent went to help him, followed by Cordelia and Basilio. They soon had him free, or free enough to roll off the table, knocking over plates and glasses; wine pooled on the floor. Yarne pulled out the apple that’d been wedged in his mouth and collapsed back into human form, the rest of the ropes falling loose around him. Gaius and Inigo went to support him, while Morgan looked at Grima.

 

“What was the point of that?” Morgan asked, calmly and quietly.

 

“It’s a joke,” Grima said, between giggles. “It was  _ funny _ .”

 

“Here, Yarne,” Chrom said. He heard his own fury in his voice and wished he could offer some comfort instead. “I think I stole your seat. It’s all yours.”

 

Yarne looked at the table, registered that the only open seat was at Grima’s side, and gave Chrom a grateful look.

 

Grima finally stopped laughing, but still grinned widely. “You should have seen the looks on your faces!”


	17. Chapter 17

Aversa loomed over Lucina on pegasus-back, cackling as Lucina’s foot slipped out from under her, giving the dark mage just the opening she needed; purple bolts of magic gathered in her hand for a powerful assault. Lucina tried desperately to steady herself, glancing around for aid, but the rest of the Shepherds remained fully occupied with Aversa’s Risen escort: no one had even noticed Lucina’s plight yet. By the time they did, it would be too late.

 

“For Master Validar!” Aversa cried, and loosed her magic, which crackled through the air towards Lucina as she futilely raised Falchion to try and deflect it.

 

And deflected it was, but not by Falchion: a figure jumped in front of Lucina, battling the dark power away as if it were nothing more than a reed on the wind, and then just as quickly returning a lightning bolt of their own, this one pure and golden without the taint of dark magic.

 

“You?” Aversa screamed. “It can’t be -- ”

 

Lightning lanced through her, through her pegasus, and they both fell. Aversa tumbled off her steed, twitching on her back in the dirt, and the newcomer plunged a sword through her heart.

 

“Don’t touch my daughter,” panted Lucina’s rescuer, still bent over the sword. As Lucina stood half-frozen, the woman turned to her. “Are you all right? Lucina?”

 

“Mother?”

 

A Risen wyvern-rider saw Lucina’s shock and swooped in to take advantage of it, but heavy hooves fell between them as Kjelle cut the monster down.

 

“There!” Robin shouted, pointing out a weakness in the enemy lines to Kjelle and Sully behind her, and the two knights rode forth to break the Risen formation. Robin turned to Lucina, casting at a foe that had come up behind her, and that brought Lucina back to herself: she could not afford to give in to her surprise in mid-battle, even with this unexpected help. Her mother seemed to recognize this change in Lucina, for she smiled and said, “Fight first, questions later. All right?”

 

“Yes,” Lucina said, and threw herself back into the battle, fighting with even greater ferocity than before, because the sooner they drove off the Risen, the sooner she could get answers from her mother.

 

The tide of battle turned quickly now, as Robin slid effortlessly back into her usual role directing the Shepherds, one that Lucina was glad to cede to her. She had never had much of a head for tactics, and their forces had suffered for it. The reinforcements helped too, as disheveled and worn as Sully and Kjelle looked, their weapons dulling and horses’ flanks muddy. Clearly they’d faced hard times. But if Sully and Kjelle had survived -- if  _ Robin _ had survived -- Lucina hardly dared imagine what that might mean.

 

She would simply have to ask, as she turned to do as soon as the last Risen sank to the ground, dispatched. “Mother, you’re alive!”

 

“Hold a moment, dear Lucina,” said Virion, stepping between them. Lucina could have slapped him, and not just for the  _ dear _ , but she held her temper. The Shepherds gathered around them now, though a few were missing, including Brady, Lissa, and Libra: the wounded and those tending to them, Lucina hoped. She had to find out -- that was her responsibility as commander -- but Virion continued, “As loath as I am to cast aspersions on the good name of a beautiful woman, a flower of femininity, and may I dare a dame of death -- ”

 

“A beautiful,  _ married _ woman,” Robin inserted, pushing Virion away as he fluttered his hands over her shoulders.

 

“My  _ love _ ,” Cherche said, with a certain note in her voice. The wyvern Minerva, left at the back of the crowd, lashed her tail at that tone. “Do get to the point.”

 

Miriel spoke before Virion could: “The probability of Robin genuinely surviving and making it back to us is far lower than the probability of the Hierophant using the similarity of their appearances in a plot against us.”

 

Lucina felt her own face fall, both at the idea and the fact that it had not occurred to her. She turned to her mother -- who might in fact be the woman who had given birth to her, who had become the Hierophant, who had twice killed her father -- with despair in her eyes.

 

“Lucina, it’s not true,” Robin said, reading her expression. “It’s me -- the real me. I can prove it: Ask me something the Hierophant wouldn’t know.”

 

_ I wonder if the Hierophant remembers raising me _ . The thought came unbidden to Lucina’s mind, and she shook it away. She had been rather young when she’d lost her mother and father at once to Grima.

 

“Do you remember the clothes you bought me, Lucina?” Robin continued. “That, er, unique dress, and then the onesie for” -- her voice broke, but she soldiered on -- “the baby? I did send it back to the palace, you know. They wrote back that she loved it. Flattery, I suspect, with a child that young; but I certainly did.”

 

“How would the Hierophant know of that?” Lucina asked, looking to Miriel and Virion, to the assembled Shepherds. “How would anyone know of that but the two of us?”

 

“They wouldn’t,” Kjelle said.

 

“Because this  _ is _ our Robin,” Sully said, slamming her lance butt into the dirt as she looked over the heads of the assembled Shepherds. “She saved both our lives, and I’ll vouch for her anytime.”

 

“If the Hierophant knew where we were, she’d just kill us,” Flavia declared. “No need for plotting when you can attack head-on.”

 

“They wanted us alive …” Olivia pointed out.

 

“She smells different,” Panne muttered. “I would not trust her.”

 

“Y-you said the same about me when I took a bath,” Noire said.

 

“I do not trust you, either,” Panne replied.

 

Lucina took a deep breath. “We can’t let fear rule us. My father already decided to trust Robin -- ”

 

“And see where that got him,” Gerome interrupted. Lucina glared at him, teeth clenched --  _ too soon _ \-- and he shrugged. “Not that it’s worth fighting over, really. We’re doomed regardless.”

 

“We’re not,” Robin said, stepping forward. Her voice demanded attention. “I understand your doubts, but you can trust me, and we  _ can _ defeat Grima. I know you still have Falchion, Lucina; if you have the Fire Emblem as well, then the Awakening -- ”

 

Lucina felt herself smiling. “I’ve already performed the Awakening, Mother. I’m ready to defeat Grima.”

 

Robin’s face lit up with a grin like sunshine. “Then I will be beside you all the way.”

 

*

 

“The Hierophant thought she had killed me, but I survived and escaped Grima’s Table by trading on her face among the Grimleal. I didn’t know where to find the rest of you, so I headed for Ylisstol, hoping you might regroup there -- on the way I found Risen hunting parties and followed them to Kjelle and Sully. They were able to give me a little more direction, and that’s how I found you.”

 

Robin sipped the watery tea Lucina had served her. Between the state of their supplies and Lucina’s unskilled brewing, it was fairly terrible, but Robin had assured Lucina that any hot drink was welcome. She’d clearly felt the same way about food, wolfing down two servings of dry jerky and stale, weevily biscuits from the Shepherds’ depleted stores, augmented locally with gristly goat meat and a few barely-ripe blackberries. The Shepherds’ supplies might be in poor condition, but Robin, Sully, and Kjelle had been traveling with no rations at all. All three were thinner and weaker than they’d been before, though to say so to Sully or Kjelle would only earn one a still-impressive punch.

 

“Your timing was impeccable,” Lucina said, remembering the murderous intent in Aversa’s eyes.

 

Robin raised her tin cup in a tired salute. “I try. I’ve never been much for faith, but maybe Naga’s looking out for us.”

 

_ I am no god _ .  “Perhaps.” 

 

Lucina sipped her own tea and struggled not to make a face. Gods, it really was awful, bitter and green-tasting. She wouldn’t have bothered to drink it at all, but she needed to create a moment’s pause as she tried to figure out how to phrase her next question.

 

She needn’t have bothered: Robin saw it coming as she’d anticipated so many enemy maneuvers. “You want to know about your father, if he could have survived as I did.”

 

“Yes.” Lucina tried to keep both hope and fear out of her voice as she leaned forward. She could barely let herself imagine that Chrom could be alive, because then she could still lose him -- lose him  _ again _ , for a third time. She had already suffered through so much grief … A horrible voice inside her said that if only he were dead at least she would not have to feel that pain renewed. The rest of her recoiled from the thought, as if merely thinking it made her complicit in his death.

 

“The truth is, I don’t know.” Robin bit her lip. “I was wounded, lost, desperate … The Table was in chaos. I didn’t see a body. I want so badly to believe he’s alive. But I don’t want to give you false hope, Lucina. The whole place was crawling with Grimleal and Risen. I barely made it out myself. In practical terms, I just … can’t see how Chrom would have escaped.”

 

Lucina picked up a tattered piece of paper from her map table: one of the fliers Grima had sent out demanding the Shepherds’ surrender. She handed it to her mother and voiced the hope that she’d been afraid to let herself feel: “Grima made these, saying he wanted the Shepherds alive, especially our family. If he’s taking prisoners, then perhaps Father … ”

 

She had barely dared think about the idea before, but if Robin were miraculously alive, why not Chrom, too?

 

Robin read the flier, frowning over her tea. “Sully and Kjelle mentioned this. I can’t imagine why Grima would take prisoners at all. Unless there’s some information he wants from us … But then who can understand the motives of a god?”

 

“Grima isn’t a god,” said Lucina, with determination: if Naga wasn’t, she’d be damned if she’d cede the title to their enemy.

 

Robin put down the flier. When she spoke, Lucina heard her own reluctance to hope reflected in her mother’s voice. “I suppose it’s possible that Grima took Chrom prisoner instead of killing him. But I don’t -- I’m not sure we should even wish for that, honestly. Being at Grima’s mercy … It might be kinder to hope he died cleanly.”

 

“Grima could never break Father,” Lucina declared. She heard immediately how childish she sounded.

 

Robin looked at her hands, at the Grimleal tattoo on the back of one, and then met Lucina’s eyes with tears in her own. “Grima can break anyone.”

 

_ She didn’t ask about Morgan _ , Lucina realized. “You know Morgan is … I lost Morgan. And the baby.”

 

“You didn’t  _ lose _ Morgan,” Robin said, firmly, though the tears were running down her face now. “Being a brave soldier, he volunteered for a dangerous mission, and …” A sob interrupted Robin, but she continued, sounding choked: “It’s not your fault.”

 

“I was his commanding officer,” Lucina insisted.  _ And his big sister.  _ “His safety was my responsibility.”

 

Robin gathered herself. “The safety of Ylisse, and of the Shepherds as a whole, was your responsibility. I know better than anyone that sometimes risks have to be taken, and sometimes commanders have to make decisions that lead to their soldiers getting hurt. I don’t blame you for what happened to Morgan, and you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

 

_ What happened to Morgan _ , not  _ Morgan’s death _ … “You think Morgan is still alive.”

 

“I …” Robin wiped her face on a torn and dirty sleeve. “I shouldn’t hope so. As with Chrom, I’m afraid being Grima’s prisoner might be a fate worse than death. But yes, I do. We know Grima wanted Morgan -- and the baby -- alive; since we don’t know why, well, I don’t see any reason to think that’s changed.”

 

An optimistic assessment, but Lucina could permit Robin a little optimism: she both needed and deserved it.

 

“I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think we can rescue them, not when we don’t even know where Grima might be holding them,” Robin continued. “But …”

 

“If we defeat Grima, we can free any prisoners he’s holding,” Lucina realized allowed.

 

Robin met Lucina’s gaze again, and this time her eyes were fierce rather than teary. “ _ When  _ we defeat Grima.”

 

Determination, not optimism: Lucina nodded. “When we defeat Grima -- we’ll save our family.”


	18. Chapter 18

Lucina slept uneasily, troubled by dreams that were not _quite_ nightmares. But a lifetime of chaos in her original timeline had taught her to come awake instantly at the sound of a sword slipping out of its scabbard.

 

In the dim moonlight filtering through the tent walls, Lucina saw Tharja standing over her cot, Falchion in her hands, the blade drawn only a couple inches out of its sheath.

 

Lucina leapt to her feet as Tharja stumbled back. Casting around for a weapon, Lucina managed to pick up a knife from her table. It was small, meant for cutting bread and cheese rather than flesh, but it was better than nothing. And she shouldn’t have to worry about meeting a blade -- Falchion wouldn’t cut for Tharja.

 

Tharja seemed to realize this, as she released Falchion’s hilt, allowing the blade to slide back into its scabbard, and slung the sword belt over her shoulder. She had a tome tied to her belt and lifted it, dark magic swirling around her fingers.

 

“Traitor!” Lucina yelled: anything to rouse the camp, to bring someone else here. She was no coward, but the idea of facing a powerful sorceress alone and armed with only a bread knife struck her as foolhardy rather than courageous. A practice lance sat in its rack somewhere behind her, but she didn’t dare turn her back on Tharja for long enough to grab it.

 

“Fool!” Tharja hissed. “You have no idea …”

 

“Put Falchion down and you can tell me,” Lucina replied.

 

Tharja shook her head with a mirthless laugh; then she tossed a ball of dark magic at Lucina’s feet. As Lucina stepped back, shielding her face with an arm, Tharja turned and ran out of the tent. For a second Lucina hesitated, surprised that Tharja would flee -- and that her spell had proved harmless -- and then she realized: _She’s not after me;  she’s taking Falchion_. Without the exalted blade, the Shepherds had no hope of stopping Grima. If she lost Falchion, Lucina might as well run up to Grima and strike the dragon’s scales with her bare hands.

 

“Don’t let her get away!” Lucina called, dashing after Tharja. “She has Falchion!”

 

The camp was starting to come alive around her, Shepherds stepping out of their tents, but few of them seemed to understand the situation. Mostly confused questions, rather than material aid, followed Lucina in her half-mad pursuit. She glanced back once to see Flavia at her heels, apparently requiring no explanation, while she heard Sully call, “My horse! Lucina needs help!”

 

Libra stepped out of the tent he shared with his wife just in time to see her sprint past him, pursued by Lucina and Flavia. “Tharja?”

 

His question went unanswered, with everyone involved in the chase too busy to respond, and then they had passed him and Lucina pushed him from her mind to focus on catching up with Tharja.

 

They were gaining, as Flavia started to outpace Lucina herself, but they were also almost out of the camp: it would be much easier for Tharja to lose them in the dark forest beyond. And if she had allies, awaiting her betrayal -- _why did she betray us_ \-- this pursuit could turn far more dangerous. Lucina almost stopped at the thought: What if it were a trap? But, trap or no trap, they could not afford to lose Falchion.

 

“Risen!” The voice sounded like Donnel’s: Lucina thought he’d been on sentry duty. “Risen, attacking the camp!”

 

Flavia swore and glanced back at Lucina.

 

“Falchion,” Lucina panted, unable to muster the breath for more detailed instructions, but Flavia understood and turned back to running. They would have to let the others deal with the Risen. At least Flavia, unlike Lucina, had possessed the presence of mind to grab a real weapon. Lucina wore her usual battle dress, though; she’d long been in the habit of sleeping in it. Flavia, on the other hand, wore nightclothes: her heavier armor would have been more difficult to rest in.

 

Tharja darted between the trees, tossing handfuls of dark magic behind her. As Flavia deflected the spells with her axe, Lucina struggled to keep the sorceress in view. The magic helped a little with that, actually, every purple glow marking her location. But it was so damn _dark_ away from the lights of the camp …

 

Something huge and furry rose in Tharja’s path, and the mage recoiled instinctively, tripped, and went down.

 

“Bear!” Flavia shouted, raising her axe, but Lucina reached her in time to stay her hand.

 

“Wait! It’s Panne.”

 

The taguel’s beast form looked down at Flavia and Lucina, placing a back paw on Tharja’s stomach to keep her from getting up again. “Would you strike me, khan?”

 

“Not knowingly,” Flavia replied, lowering her weapon.

 

“I would,” Tharja snarled, sending a curse directly into Panne’s face. Panne yelped but leaned forward as she stumbled, putting more rather than less of her weight on Tharja; Tharja gasped in pain. Lucina leapt forward to pull Falchion from its sheath. Its weight in her hand felt more comforting than any measure of teddy bears and warm blankets. Tharja could still escape with its scabbard and sword belt, which remained wrapped around her shoulder, but that would be little loss, compared to the blade itself.

 

“I can’t _see_ ,” Panne moaned, her forelimbs clawing at her face.

 

Lucina leveled Falchion at Tharja, holding the sword’s point a mere inch from the sorceress’ throat. “Cure Panne.”

 

Tharja laughed. “I can’t. I made _that_ one permanent.”

 

“You lie,” Panne growled. “Only a fool would cast a spell she could not undo. What if it had gone off on your child, or your mate?”

 

Tharja shrugged. “They’d get what they deserved for meddling with my things. Lie or not, you cannot make me lift it.”

 

“We’ll see about that,” Flavia said, grabbing Tharja by the arm and starting to haul her up. She made sure to take Tharja’s tome away, and the pouch the sorceress used to store curses and charms. “Panne, if you could step off her: I’ve got her.”

 

Panne complied, and as Flavia hauled Tharja to her feet, the taguel shifted back into human form, rubbing her face. Even in the dark Lucina could see how she screwed up her eyes in pain. Lucina took her arm. “Here, I’ll help you back to camp.”

 

“I don’t need your help, human.” Panne pushed Lucina’s hand away. “You rely too much on your eyes; my people have proper senses.”

 

True to her word, Panne managed to pick her way through the underbrush, though slowly, following Flavia as the khan marched Tharja back to camp. Lucina fell in behind Panne. They needed to get back to camp quickly, if there were Risen attacking, but she could not leave Panne alone and blind in the forest.

 

By the time they returned to camp, the other Shepherds had repelled the Risen, though not without cost: Vaike lay badly wounded under the healers’ attentions and Kjelle had fallen. They had not yet managed to move Kjelle’s body, as Sully crouched in the dirt at her side, silent and motionless, and would not be shifted. Lucina looked at the terrible tableau, horrifically familiar -- she had seen loss, so many times -- and felt despair settle over her. They had Falchion still, they had captured Tharja, but for what, if Grima could reach into their camp so easily? The Risen had dragged away Donnel and Anna alive, at least as far as anyone could tell. There were fewer than twenty Shepherds left now, half their original number. And Panne still couldn’t see. Lucina sent her to the healers, to be treated once Vaike stabilized.

 

Robin sat at Sully’s side, trying to convince the knight to leave her daughter -- or what was left of her daughter. But she looked up when Lucina and the others returned, her gaze fixing on Tharja. She walked over, her face hard. “Tharja, what did you _do_?”

 

Libra and Noire arrived just in time to hear that. Noire took one look at her mother, restrained and defiant, and fled. Libra remained, staring at his wife as if he’d never seen her before.

 

“I had nothing to do with _that_ ,” Tharja said, jerking her head towards Kjelle’s body. “That’s just your luck.”

 

In one motion, Sully stood up, whirled around, and punched Tharja in the face. Standing next to her, Lucina heard the crunch of Tharja’s nose breaking.

 

“You were a diversion,” Robin said calmly, “to distract us while the Risen attacked our camp; or the other way around: the Risen were a diversion to help you escape. How long have you worked for Grima? Since the Table? Or did he convert you more recently?”

 

Tharja spat blood at Robin’s feet. Sully pulled back to punch her again, but Lucina grabbed her wrist. “Sully, I know you’re hurting, but we don’t hit prisoners.”

 

“No matter how much we might want to,” Flavia added. Spitting at Tharja, Sully turned on her heel and returned to Kjelle’s side.

 

Robin stepped forward and took Tharja’s chin in her hand, almost cradling it as she looked into Tharja’s eyes. “You told me once that you’d do anything for me, Tharja. If that’s still true, then please, tell me: What is Grima planning?”

 

Tharja croaked out a laugh. “I did _this_ for you. For you and” -- she turned her head to look at Libra -- “for you and Noire. Grima promised your lives if I brought him Falchion.”

 

Libra closed his eyes, looking very, very tired. “You can’t imagine we would want that.”

 

“As if ‘want’ ever matters,” Tharja snorted. She turned her gaze back to Robin as if her husband didn’t exist. “So what now? Are you going to kill me, Robin?”

 

“Death is the traditional punishment for treason,” Flavia offered.

 

Robin’s face twisted, miserable. “We don’t have the resources to keep her prisoner, and if we don’t, she’ll just help Grima …”

 

“You can’t!” Noire hadn’t gone far, as it turned out: she threw herself out from behind one of the tents. “Mother -- Father -- ”

 

For a moment Libra only looked at her helplessly. Then he turned to Robin. “To execute a helpless prisoner -- ”

 

“Forms the basis for law enforcement the world over,” Flavia said impatiently.

 

“She betrayed us to aid the enemy, Libra,” Robin said quietly. Then, rather to Lucina’s horror, she looked at her daughter. “But in the end it’s your decision, Lucina. You’re the Shepherds’ commander.”

 

Five expectant faces turned to Lucina: Libra, Noire, Robin, Flavia, and Tharja herself. To protest that Robin ought to be in charge would be a coward’s way out. Slowly, Lucina drew Falchion.

 

“Lucina, please,” Noire begged, stepping between Lucina and her mother.

 

“What else do you suggest, Noire?” Robin asked, sounding as if she sincerely hoped that Noire had a better solution in mind.

 

“I -- I don’t know! Just don’t kill her!”

 

Tharja sneered at her daughter. “Your groveling is pathetic. I’m ashamed to say you share my blood. If I’m to die, I don’t want your whining to be the last thing I hear -- but at least I won’t have to suffer giving birth to you.”

 

For a moment the reminder of their different timelines worried Lucina -- did that mean that if they executed Tharja, Noire would cease to exist? No: Gregor had died, and his son Brady was still here.

 

Noire stared at her mother, stricken. Libra’s face went hard, and then Noire’s copied him: before Lucina wouldn’t have said that Noire resembled her father much, but that expression looked identical on both of them. Noire’s voice boomed: “THEN DIE WITH MY CURSES IN YOUR EARS, MOTHER.”

 

That felt like it settled the matter. Lucina raised Falchion. “Do you have any last words, Tharja?”

 

Lucina saw something like panic flash in Tharja’s eyes, as if she hadn’t truly believed that she was going to die until this moment. Tharja looked at Robin, her voice half-pleading: “I love you, Robin.”

 

“I know,” Robin said quietly.

 

Lucina swung her sword.


	19. Chapter 19

“Tharja is dead,” Grima said quietly, something odd in her tone. Chrom looked up from playing with baby Lucina, and Morgan closed the book he was reading. “Lucina killed her.”

 

“Lucina wouldn’t do that,” Chrom said, thinking he had finally caught Grima in an outright lie.

 

Grima chuckled. “You’re so trusting, Chrom. But you wouldn’t blame her: as it turned out, Tharja was loyal to me, not you.”

 

A blow: it hadn’t occurred to Chrom that Tharja, long obsessed with his wife, might betray the Shepherds. He’d had bigger problems on his mind. And if Tharja  _ had _ turned traitor … What damage might she have done, before Lucina stopped her? Again he resented having Grima as his only source of news.

 

“And you got her killed,” Chrom said, vindictive.

 

“Obviously I didn’t intend for her to get  _ caught _ ,” Grima said sharply, with none of her usual detached amusement. She almost sounded sincerely upset. After she’d killed so many Shepherds, was it even possible that Tharja’s death actually bothered her? Why? Because Tharja had been on her side? “Stupid woman. She failed me and got herself killed in the process.”

 

That sounded more like Grima -- her selfish vexation that the world, and especially the Shepherds, had failed to kneel before her on command. 

 

“It’s OK, Mother,” Morgan said quietly, coming over to stand behind Grima. “You're allowed to mourn.”

 

Grima’s jaw clenched. Tensing, Chrom started to stand: if Grima were angry, he didn’t intend to leave Morgan to bear the brunt of that anger alone. Then baby Lucina reached for him and he paused, torn between his two children, unsure who to try to protect -- always cognizant of the fact that if Grima truly turned on them, he would have little hope of protecting anyone.

 

Grima turned to him with fiery eyes, and Chrom had half a second before she spoke to register that yes, she was quite angry. “Do you think I would attack Morgan, Chrom? Over what, one dead Plegian, when my throne, my  _ body _ , is built of dead Plegians? To sacrifice herself for me is a better death than Tharja deserved. And you think that I would mourn her?”

 

“No,” Chrom said, finding his voice cold. He scooped up baby Lucina and stood, glaring at Grima, his steely image only slightly marred by the baby burbling and grabbing at his chin. “I don’t.”

 

“I do,” Morgan interjected. Grima’s head snapped towards him, staring at him as if in shock. Startled that he had dared disagree with her, perhaps, especially when he’d been so willing to defer to his “mother” so far. “I know you’re Grima, with your throne of corpses and all that, but you’re my mother too, and my mother  _ cares _ about her friends. I know it hurts you to lose them, even if your own actions brought about their deaths -- especially then, I would think. I know you would rather have them here and safe than kill them. And I think Tharja’s death hurts you even more because she would have come if you’d asked her to. I can’t tell you it’s not your fault, Mother, not as you are now. But I can tell you that it’s all right for you to grieve. No matter who you are, no matter what you’ve done, you’re allowed to feel sad. And I’m here for you, Mother.”

 

Grima stared at Morgan, face blank, looking about as surprised as Chrom felt. Had  _ he  _ ever tried to sympathize with Grima? No. He’d tried to get through to Robin, but not like this -- he’d never accepted this woman as both Grima and Robin. Chrom didn’t think he could do that, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t stand there and tell Grima that  _ anything _ about her existence in the body of his wife was “all right.” Surely Morgan couldn’t possibly believe what he’d said. Oh, the part about the deaths hurting Robin, that was certainly true -- but for those deaths to occur, Robin had to be buried so deeply inside Grima that surely none of the pain she felt could affect the fell dragon. Probably Grima enjoyed feeling his host suffer. Grief, regret, love -- all completely foreign emotions to him, and thus to the creature who sat before them now.

 

Even as Chrom thought this, Grima looked at him and laughed a bitter laugh. “I can tell you disagree, my love.”

 

The endearment made Chrom’s muscles tighten, but as the baby clung to his collar, he forced himself to calm down and speak as wisely as he could. If Morgan had won any ground by sucking up to Grima -- as odious as that activity was -- Chrom did not want to ruin it for him. Chrom closed his eyes and made himself imagine that he was talking to Robin, trapped inside her own body, watching all of this unfold. He could comfort  _ her _ . His words weren’t well-phrased like Morgan’s, but they were the best he could do.  “Robin, you’re not to blame for what Grima’s making you do. Of all the horrible things Grima has done, using you like this … You didn’t hurt our friends; Grima did. And -- and we’re going to free you. Whatever it takes, we’ll find a way.”

 

Grima regarded Chrom with a flat expression, giving no indication that his words had gotten through to Robin. Then she laughed again, sounding a little more mirthful this time. “Ah, Chrom … Morgan understands the situation so much better than you do. Robin isn’t waiting for you inside Grima like some lost princess in her dragon-guarded castle, like a silver coin in a plum pudding. We’re the same person now. I am Robin, and I am Grima, and I sent Tharja to her death. And I would do so again a thousand times over. This is war, and you should know better than anyone that war requires sacrifice.”

 

“Tharja’s death wasn’t necessary, Mother,” Morgan said quietly. “If all you wanted was for the Shepherds to join you, to be safe -- she would have joined you. She would have come to safety if you’d asked her to.”

 

“Is this how you comfort your mother?” Grima’s face turned sour. “She was a bishop, Morgan. And her gambit almost took the enemy king.”

 

“Tharja, in the church?” Chrom said, baffled. What enemy king? All the male sovereigns he knew were either dead or here at the Table.

 

This time, Grima’s laugh was genuine, and Morgan even joined in after a second; baby Lucina giggled and babbled just at the sound. For a moment Chrom could almost imagine that he had his family here with him, laughing and chatting. But too many people were missing -- Lissa, Lucina -- and lucky to be elsewhere. Lissa might be much tougher now than when she had first joined the Shepherds, but she’d always be Chrom’s baby sister, and he dreaded the idea of her in Grima’s grasp. And of course Lucina’s capture would be the end, truly, for Ylisse and all the world, not just a personal tragedy.

 

“Enough about Tharja,” Grima said, sounding as if her mood had considerably improved -- as if any trace of grief she might have felt was now gone. She steepled her fingers, a Robin-like gesture, but the cold, almost hungry smile on her face certainly wasn’t Robin’s. “With her removed from the board, I have only a few cards left to play, if I may be permitted to mix my metaphors. What do you think, Morgan? Do I delay and harass the Shepherds, nipping at their heels and blocking their path, whittling away their strength? Or should I open the way before them and let them come to me, herding them to our inevitable confrontation?”

 

Morgan hesitated, but only for a second. “You know I will ask you to let them come, and you know why.”

 

“Of course.” That tone Chrom recognized as the one Robin used when Morgan answered a question correctly in a tactical lesson. “And you have some hope of convincing me to comply, don’t you? After all, I am quite arrogant. I believe myself to have overwhelming advantages, so why not invite my enemies in and get the matter over with?”

 

The question hung in the air. Even Chrom had trouble mustering his faith in the face of Grima’s complete confidence.

 

“Lucina has Falchion,” he said, hating that he almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “She has Naga’s power on her side. She  _ will  _ defeat you.”

 

Morgan grimaced and shook his head at Chrom’s words, and too late Chrom realized that he’d marred his son’s attempt to trick Grima into making the Shepherds’ journey easier. If Grima thought herself at risk, she’d fight the Shepherds every step of their way to the Table, and Chrom had just reminded her of the danger Lucina posed.

 

“You’re right, Chrom,” Grima said quietly. “No matter what power I hold, if Lucina reaches me, she may defeat me. It is unlikely, but she has a chance. So, of course, I must continue to do everything I can to minimize that chance. Thank you, Chrom, for keeping my hubris in check. To lose due to my own pride would, after all, be absolutely ignominious for a tactician like myself.”

 

Baby Lucina whined as Chrom’s grip on her tightened involuntarily, his muscles tensed with anger at Grima’s patronizing gratitude. He forced himself to relax, though as Grima kept talking, it only became more difficult.

  
“Of course, if only I could kill Lucina, Tharja would have settled the matter already.” Grima looked wistful, as if -- despite her protestations of love and good intentions -- she  _ wished _ she could destroy Lucina, but something held her back.  _ That’s Robin, _ Chrom thought.  _ Whatever she says, that’s Robin fighting Grima, protecting us even now. _ “But I will not harm my daughter, so I’ll simply have to rob her of her followers, her supplies, every resource to which she might turn. And then, when the time is right, I will take her Falchion, and throw it into the sea as I did yours, Chrom, and then the whole matter will be over and I will devour this world at my leisure. And then, at last, we will be a happy family again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid there will be no update next month (December 1) as I am doing NaNoWriMo and thus won't have time to work on this fic. Next update will be January 1, 2019!
> 
> Also, this November marks the one year anniversary of this fanfic, which frankly staggers me. I never would have thought at the time that I'd be able to commit to this project and keep updating it regularly like this. At the risk of sounding sappy ... Thanks for coming on this journey with me! This would not have happened without your comments and support.


	20. Chapter 20

Libra staggered out of the infirmary tent and cast around blindly for something to lean against, somewhere to sit down -- a way to lift a little of the weight pressing on his shoulders, and not just physically. He could still hear Lissa and Nowi sobbing inside the tent, and he refused to add his own tears to the mix, to burden them with his emotions in addition to their own.

 

“Libra?” Robin took his elbow, steered him to a seat on an empty supply crate, set against the back of a tent near the edge of camp. She sat opposite him, eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Are you all right? You look upset.”

 

An understatement, Libra imagined. “Vaike is dead. We couldn’t save him.”

 

Robin let out a little noise as if physically struck by the words. That sound, in turn, lanced into Libra’s heart and sent a fresh wave of tears to his trembling eyes, and this time he failed to resist them.

 

Patting his hand, Robin choked out a hoarse laugh. “Naga’s bones, Libra, you even cry prettily.”

 

“There’s nothing pretty about …” Libra gestured vaguely, robbed of his usual eloquence.

 

Robin sobered. “I know. I know, Libra. It’s not your fault, you know that? None of what’s happened -- with Vaike, or with Tharja -- is your fault. There was nothing you could have done to save either of them.”

 

Libra shook his head. “I’m a healer. I should have saved Vaike.”

 

“You’re a cleric, not a god. Some things are simply beyond mere mortals.” Robin squeezed Libra’s hand. “If Naga wished Vaike to live, he would have. You couldn’t go against her will.”

 

It was an odd theology Robin presented: Libra shook his head again, briefly distracted from his guilt by what he might call a professional question. “I have to believe that Lady Naga wishes none of this -- that were it within her power to stop, we would not face Grima now.”

 

“Call it fate, then, and not the will of your goddess. The fact remains that you could not have saved Vaike or Tharja.” There was a strange distant note in Robin’s voice, but then, she was grieving too, and not just for Vaike or Tharja. Almost everyone had lost family by now; Libra supposed he ought to count himself lucky to have gone so long with his own intact. But what a way to lose Tharja … He wouldn’t say it was worse than seeing her dragged off by Risen or bleeding in the dirt; he could not compare tragedies and pain as if weighing sacks of grain. And he had always known that in her heart, his wife loved Robin and considered him second best, a consolation prize.

 

“I should have known,” he said. “I should have seen what Tharja was planning and stopped her. It’s not even about saving her. Vaike, Kjelle, Anna, Donnel -- Panne’s still blinded. I could have saved them all if I’d just realized Tharja’s intentions. I should have stopped her!”

 

The thought wasn’t entirely new, though recent events had given it new, terrible weight. But on hearing Noire’s stories of her parents in the future, he’d had to wonder -- when she spoke of how Tharja had treated her own daughter, what  _ he _ had allowed her to do to  _ his  _ child … Was he that weak, that ineffectual, in the future? Unable or unwilling to protect his daughter -- cowed by Tharja’s spells or her temper? How had he, his future self, failed Noire so badly?

 

And what were recent events, if not proof that that failure lay in him already, that even forewarned he could do nothing to stop Tharja -- to shield his daughter from her actions? Even with her last breaths Tharja had lashed out at Noire, and at Libra. By saving her final words for Robin, she’d clearly demonstrated exactly where Libra ranked in her world. He hadn’t even rated the invective she’d given Noire -- he was nothing, meant nothing to her. And his failure to impede Tharja had cost lives.

 

From Robin’s silence, Libra couldn’t help but think she agreed. He should have stopped Tharja.

 

“Even if you had caught Tharja in time,” Robin said quietly, “the Risen might have attacked that night anyway. They’re the ones who did the most damage, not Tharja. Anna, Donnel, Kjelle, Vaike -- their fates should not be on your conscience. They should be on mine.”

 

Libra glanced up. “Yours?”

 

Robin shrugged. When she spoke, she sounded more analytical than guilty. “I’m the Shepherds’ tactician. I should have realized the potential for a surprise attack at night and set guards more carefully to prevent it. Gods, I knew Tharja well too -- I could have stopped as well. But neither of us did, and now we have to deal with the consequences.”

 

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Libra said, automatically: years as a cleric had accustomed him to salving the wounds of others, physically and emotionally.

 

Robin waved a hand, laughing a little. “It doesn’t keep me up at night -- well, no more than anything else. I’m aware of my mistakes, that’s all. Now, Libra -- you should get some rest. You look dead on your feet.”

 

*

 

“Noire?”

 

Noire jumped at the sound of her name, then cursed herself for a coward, again. She rubbed her eyes quickly: she didn’t want anyone to know that she’d been crying. Not that she had much chance of avoiding it, considering how red and puffy her face must still be. Maybe she could claim to have a cold. If her mother were still alive, she could claim to be victim to one of Tharja’s sniffling curses, but if her mother were still alive, she wouldn’t be sitting here crying, would she?

 

She could only imagine what Tharja would say if she could find her daughter bawling over her. She certainly didn’t have to imagine far -- Tharja’s penultimate words had left no question as to how she felt about Noire’s feelings for her. Sometimes Noire couldn’t help but agree with her. After all that Tharja had put her through, all the curses and spells she’d tried out on Noire, with or without Noire’s permission or even knowledge -- after all the suffering Tharja had caused, after her attempt to betray the Shepherds -- after all that, Noire did have to be terribly weak to still love her mother. If she were stronger, she wouldn’t mourn Tharja; if she were stronger, she’d be able to simply say “good riddance” and move on, Noire felt sure.

 

“Noire? Are you in there?”

 

In her misery Noire had almost forgotten that she still had a guest waiting outside her tent. She hurried to the flap. “I’m here! Oh, Robin!”

 

“I brought you some food,” Robin said, nodding at the tray she carried. “I noticed you haven’t been eating.”

 

Noire blushed, flattered that Robin would even notice her own state -- and a bit guilty, too. The Shepherds’ tactician had far too much on her plate to be fretting over someone as useless as Noire. “I, uh, I haven’t been hungry. And with supplies so tight …”

 

Robin nodded ruefully. “I can understand the instinct, especially when what we have isn’t appealing. I would love to have brought you fluffy pancakes in butter and fresh syrup, but, well …”

 

She looked down at the tray, which contained instead hard biscuits and stringy goat meat.

 

“But you have to keep up your strength,” Robin continued. “You’re of no use to the army if you’re fainting from hunger.”

 

“Maybe I’m of no use to the army anyway,” Noire half-muttered, speaking to herself more than Robin.

 

“Noire,” Robin said, her voice sympathetic. “Can we talk?”

 

“Oh, I, uh …” Noire glanced around helplessly. The last thing she wanted to do was take up Robin’s time, not when there were so many other demands on it -- not when Robin was vital to the army and Noire so obviously was not. Not to mention, her tent was both tiny and a mess.

 

“Somewhere a little more private, perhaps?” Robin offered, as if she’d read Noire’s mind. But Noire didn’t know where they could go. “I know a spot on the edge of camp …”

 

*

 

“Don’t tell anyone else this, but I’m worried about Lucina,” Robin said, sitting down next to Lissa in the otherwise empty infirmary.

 

Lissa looked up from where she’d been very busy staring at nothing and contemplating her failures. She had come in here to make bandages, something the Shepherds always needed now -- and to check their supplies again and see if there was any way she could coax their limited ingredients into forming a few more of the vulneraries they desperately needed. Lissa couldn’t help but think if they’d had more healing supplies, maybe Vaike … 

 

Lissa came close,  _ this _ close, to telling Robin she didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t they all have enough to worry about without Robin piling more onto her? But her duty to the Shepherds and her country and her friends won through. “Why? I think she’s done amazing just to get us this far.”

 

“She has.” Robin nodded. “I don’t doubt that. But you don’t think the stress might be affecting her?”

 

“It’s affecting all of us,” Lissa said, a bit sharply. She took a deep breath. “But Lucina can push through it. I know she can.”

 

“She can,” Robin acknowledged, “but at what cost?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Robin hesitated, then sighed. “I didn’t want to say anything at the time, not in front of the whole army, but … you don’t think she killed Tharja a little quickly? Oh, don’t get me wrong -- we had no choice but to execute her. She was a traitor and would have continued to work against us. But … I can’t help but think we should have waited and made her reverse her spell on Panne.”

 

Despite the best efforts of Lissa and the Shepherds’ other healers, Panne remained unable to see. Tharja’s spell appeared to have dissipated, but the damage it had done seemed permanent and resistant to magical healing -- even more so than if a simple wound had blinded Panne. Even after her death, Tharja’s expertise with curses continued to reign supreme.

 

“Would she have?” Lissa said, uncertain. “She seemed very … angry.”

 

Robin shrugged. “Maybe not. It would be hard to motivate her to do anything, if she knew we were going to kill her anyway. But -- ”

 

“Gerome?” came Owain’s voice from outside. “Why are you skulking about like a thief on the darkest of nights?”

 

“I am not  _ skulking _ ,” Gerome responded, with icy dignity. “Minerva is wounded. I sought medical supplies for her.”

 

“He was eavesdropping,” Robin hissed, eyes wide. “Otherwise he would have come in.” 

 

Lissa grimaced; Robin hadn’t wanted anyone else to know about her concerns, let alone the aloof and pessimistic Gerome.

 

“What are you doing here?” Gerome continued, his voice becoming defensive in his attempt to turn the question back on Owain.

 

“Looking for Noire,” Owain replied. “I thought, of course, that the fair maiden might require companionship in her moment of bereavement, and who better to provide that comfort than Owain Dark, hero of legend, as compassionate as he is deadl -- ”

 

“Are you going to start hitting on all the girls now that Inigo’s gone?” Gerome cut off Owain’s spluttered protests: “Never mind. I don’t care. You thought she’d be here?”

 

“Her father practices the noble art of medicine, does he not? I thought they seek succor in each other’s company, but his tent was empty as well.” Owain pushed his way into the tent, over Gerome’s protest. “Father Libra? Noire? Oh, Mother!”

 

“Hello Owain, Gerome,” Robin said, as Lissa waved at her son. “What’s this? You can’t find Noire or Libra?”

 

“I’m sure they simply seek a private venue in which to air their grief,” Owain declared.

 

“They shouldn’t wander off, though,” Robin said, frowning. “It’s not safe.”


	21. Chapter 21

Grima’s Table had just started to loom on the horizon when Henry showed up on a black pegasus with a Risen rider, landing at the edge of camp and quickly drawing everyone’s attention.

 

Olivia threw herself at her husband before his feet even touched the ground, hugging him tightly in joy and relief. “You’re alive! I thought -- ”

 

“Olivia,” Robin said, quietly, but in a tone that broke through her elation. Olivia looked up, saw the still-mounted Risen staring down at her with its eyes like red coals, and blanched, going stiff.

 

Henry put one arm around Olivia and waved at Robin with the other. “Hi, Robin! Hello, Lucina! I’ve come to tell you all to surrender.”

 

Olivia pulled back and looked into Henry’s face, but his cheerful, bland smile remained unreadable even to her. When she’d first met him, she’d found that smile creepy, as did many of the Shepherds. Somewhere along the way, she’d started to appreciate it as sincere, in Henry’s own odd way: he genuinely enjoyed their company, her company. Suddenly it looked sinister again.

 

Lucina drew Falchion. A moment later, a wave of weapon-unsheathing went through all the gathered Shepherds. Robin, Olivia noticed, didn’t move, just watched Henry sadly.

 

“Grima sent you?” Lucina said, voice harsh.

 

“Yep!” Henry’s smile widened. “If you don’t want to surrender, that’s all right too! Grima has a lot of surprises in mind for you. It might be fun to see!”

 

Olivia's stomach lurched. She grabbed Henry by the shoulders. “You  _ want  _ to watch Grima kill us?”

 

He looked at her, frowning slightly. “Not you, of course.” Glancing back up and addressing the Shepherds as a group again, he said, “It really would be better if you surrendered. Don't listen to silly ol’ me! Grima will be quite unhappy if you keep fighting.”

 

“Oh, the poor thing,” Virion said dryly. 

 

“How can you do this?” Olivia said softly. “Grima killed our son.”

 

Henry blinked. “Inigo? He's fine.”

 

Olivia's heart stopped.

 

“Everybody's fine,” Henry continued, to the group of Shepherds. He laughed. “Well, not everybody. A lot of people are dead. But, like, a bunch? Plenty of the Shepherds are perfectly fine and hanging out in Grima's Table. We even had a party not too long ago.”

 

Dead silence for a long moment. Then, speaking as if the word were ripped from his throat, Brady said, “Who?”

 

“Well, Inigo, of course, and Yarne and Laurent … Frederick, Basilio … oh, Maribelle and Gaius, and Anna. And Noire and Libra just arrived recently.”

 

Robin frowned, muttering, “Noire and Libra …”

 

“Yeah! I mean, Grima told Tharja they’d be all right, right? And Grima keeps his promises. Which is how you can know you’ll all be fine if you just surrender.” Henry grinned out at his audience as if he’d just delivered a winning line. Then he gasped, clapping his free hand -- the other still rested on Olivia’s back as she stood frozen in his half-embrace -- to his face as if he’d just remembered something shocking. “Oh, and Chrom! Chrom’s fine. He’s with Morgan and the baby; they’re all safe, a happy little family, just waiting for you.”

 

Olivia looked up and saw that Lucina’s eyes had gone blank, empty, overwhelmed. Robin, meanwhile, had closed hers; she just looked so, so tired.

 

Finally, after a long moment, Lucina spoke. Her eyes had shifted down, but they shone with new intensity, with freshly focused determination. Olivia had read once that diamonds formed by squeezing rocks under great weight; she imagined Lucina’s eyes as those diamonds, turned sharp and glittering by immense, inhuman pressure.

 

“Tell my father that we’re coming for him. Tell  _ Grima _ that we’re coming for  _ him _ . We  _ will _ defeat the fell dragon and we will save our families and friends. He sent you on a fool’s errand; he will find no surrender here. Now get out of our camp, traitor.”

 

A powerful speech, but Henry only pouted in response, and began to shrug, and did not release Olivia. Some vague unformed thought ran through Olivia’s mind, something important that she really ought to bring into focus --

 

Lucina stepped forward, Falchion in hand, her posture threatening, and then someone near the back of the crowd said, “Wait.”

 

Olivia saw Robin’s face fall, lips parting slightly as she turned to look behind her. With a great sense of drama, the crowd of Shepherds split down the middle to reveal Gerome, his face pale under the mask he always wore.

 

“Gerome?” Virion said. Cherche wasn’t among the crowd; she must be tending Minerva, or perhaps on patrol. Olivia wondered if Gerome still would have spoken up if he’d had to face his mother as he did so.

 

Gerome didn’t look at his father. He stepped forward, somehow both hesitant and defiant, clearly quite aware of all the Shepherds’ eyes on him. “Anyone who surrenders will be safe, right? You guarantee that?”

 

“You would never be so craven!” Owain cried. “None of our noble fellowship would so much as consider submitting to evil, knuckling under to darkness, allowing a shadow to fall -- ”

 

Brady cut Owain off: “Yeah, you’re no coward. What are you doin’?”

 

Gerome ignored them both, but his voice softened: he sounded almost childish as he asked, “Is that just for humans, or … wyverns, too?”

 

Virion inhaled sharply and said, “Minerva.”

 

“That’s right.” Gerome looked around. “Everyone here is already dead. You should all know that. You’re fooling yourself, thinking that you can defeat Grima. You couldn’t do it last time around and that was  _ with _ Chrom and all of our parents and -- it’s not possible. You can’t fight fate, Lucina. You’d be smarter to take the deal and at least get a life with your father out of it; Grima will destroy the world either way. But it doesn’t matter. The truth is, I don’t care what happens to you, any of you. I don’t even care what happens to  _ me _ . But I won’t see Minerva die for a lost cause.”

 

Henry laughed, the sound raucous in the solemn air. “Of course we can keep poor Minerva safe! It would be an awful shame to see her hurt. Maybe Grima could even set aside a whole swath of land for her and the other wyverns. A nature reserve! That would be nice, wouldn’t it? All the beautiful animals …”

 

“Then I surrender.” Gerome’s shoulders sagged as he walked towards Henry. “If that’s what it takes to keep Minerva safe …”

 

“Are we -- can he do that?” Nowi asked in her child’s voice. “Is that allowed?”

 

Robin looked at Lucina. Everyone, including Gerome, looked at Lucina. Lucina, her eyes suddenly helpless -- their determination liquified -- looked at Robin.

 

Biting her lip, Robin said, “By military standards, desertion in a time of war is worth a potentially fatal court martial.”

 

“You cannot -- ” Virion began.

 

“ _ But _ ,” Robin said, speaking over him, “as far as I’m aware, Gerome never formally enlisted in the Ylissean army. I don’t know what legal standards apply here. I’m not sure any do.”

 

“I say let him go,” Flavia said, contemptuous. “If he’s that much of a coward he’s of no use to us anyway.”

 

Gerome clenched his jaw but did not respond to the accusation of cowardice. He turned away. “I’ll go get Minerva.”

 

“Tell her hi from me!” Henry remained inappropriately cheerful. He giggled. “I mean, I might as well tell her myself; we’ll be flying together.”

 

That brought home for Olivia the fact that when this encounter concluded, Henry would hop back on that pegasus and fly away again -- her husband would return to Grima’s side and Grima’s employ. Which meant Olivia …

 

“Wait!” Virion said, with Gerome almost vanished among the tents, heading to Minerva’s nest. “I will accompany you.”

 

“Virion?” said Robin, clearly startled. Perhaps it had occurred to her ahead of time that Gerome, who had always proclaimed that he only came to the past for Minerva’s sake, might abandon the Shepherds. But obviously she hadn’t foreseen Virion’s defection.

 

Virion pushed through the crowd towards his son, though not everyone parted before him willingly. He glanced back. “Lucina, Robin, I am most deeply sorry. I … Please do not imagine that this represents a rejection of the Shepherds or any loyalty to Grima. I abhor that savage creature as much as the rest of you. Which is precisely why I cannot allow my son to venture into his lair alone.”

 

“He’s not alone!” Henry pointed out. “He has me!”

 

Virion ignored Henry, but Gerome seemed to warm to the theme, sticking out his chin. “I’m not alone. I have Minerva. I don’t need you, Fa -- Virion _. _ I’m not even truly your son: my father is dead, and your child yet unborn. Do not imagine a connection between us where none exists; leave me in peace.”

 

“I will leave you in all the peace I can muster,” Virion replied, with a dignity and determination that Olivia found herself envying, “as long as I am certain that you are safe, and not suffering in Grima’s clutches.”

 

“And what do you imagine that you, O ‘archest of archers,’ could do to save me then?” Gerome snapped.

 

That was visibly a blow to Virion, but he persevered. “If I die trying, at least I will be able to say that I tried, and will not have to see a world where I have outlived my son through cowardice.”

 

“‘Cowardice,’ he says, while fleeing the true battle,” growled Panne. A ripple went through the crowd as people turned to her. Although her eyes remained unfocused, unseeing, they detracted little from her fierce expression. “The fop has always saved his own skin, here and in Valm. Why should we expect any different now?”

 

Panne took a step forward and turned her head to encompass the crowd that she couldn’t see. “Does anyone else wish to run, tail folded, before the end draws nigh? Best to flee now, while the enemy welcomes you with open arms.”

 

The crowd received this in utter silence. Olivia could hear the wind rustling through the Risen pegasus’ feathers. If anyone else had entertained thoughts of surrendering -- though Olivia doubted they had -- they were not brave enough to admit it in front of Panne’s withering, blind glare.

 

A sound, a footfall: Gerome turned and left, heading for Minerva’s nest. Virion went to follow, then glanced back at Henry, a question on his face.

 

“We’ll meet you in the air,” Henry suggested. “Just head towards the Table -- I’ll let Grima know you’re coming.”

 

Virion nodded and walked away, head down. Among the crowd, Sully moved to stop him -- roughly -- but Robin shook her head, and she backed down. Robin turned to Lucina and began a whispered conference with her, but Lucina barely seemed to be listening.

 

“I think that’s our work here done!” Henry said. “Time to go, Olivia.”

 

That unsettling feeling at the back of Olivia’s mind snapped into full focus. “I’m not going  _ with  _ you, Henry!”

 

For once, Henry actually frowned. “You have to. If you stay here, you could get hurt. Grima’s not  _ trying _ to kill the Shepherds, but things are going to get pretty hairy from this point. That’s why I’m here.”

 

“If this is  _ not  _ trying to kill us, I’d hate to see things get ‘hairy,’” Robin commented dryly, looking around at the Shepherds -- or, rather, all the missing Shepherds. Even assuming Henry hadn’t given a complete list of the prisoners, they’d all seen enough bodies to make it clear that Grima didn’t mind slaughtering them.

 

Olivia tried to pull away from Henry, but he tightened his grip on her, wrapping his other arm around her. Alarmed, Olivia pushed at him -- she ought to be strong enough to break free; as a dancer she trained more physically than a mage -- but the Risen dropped to the ground and grabbed her arms before she could extricate herself.

 

Lucina moved forward, Falchion in hand; Robin drew her sword and followed. Behind them, the group of Shepherds surged forth. Stepping away from Olivia -- allowing the Risen to take hold of her instead -- Henry tossed an arc of dark magic out towards the Shepherds, driving them back: Lucina put a hand up to protect her face, and Robin staggered. Dark tendrils rose from that semicircle and twined around the Shepherds’ feet and legs, doing no direct harm but holding them in place as they struggled to keep advancing. Meanwhile, the Risen dragged Olivia onto pegasus-back, throwing her over the saddle. As Lucina managed another step towards him, Henry hopped up onto the animal as well, waving a cheery goodbye, and then they took off.

 

Nowi and Tiki came after them -- Olivia caught glimpses of their draconic forms in the sky -- but even with the pegasus overburdened by three people, they couldn’t catch up in time, not before an entire squadron of Risen pegasus- and wyvern-riders flew up out of the trees to engage them. As Nowi wheeled about, searching for an opening, Olivia had a flash of tactical insight, as if she’d borrowed Robin’s mind: the Risen would use her as bait to lure the manaketes away from their allies on the ground, then capture or kill them. Olivia closed her eyes, feeling tears leak out as the wind of their flight snatched them away. Not only had she allowed herself to be captured without a real fight, but she’d gotten two of her comrades captured or killed trying to save her. How useless, how pathetic -- they should have just given up on her. She didn’t think Henry would hurt her, not really, but even if he would -- she wasn’t worth this. She wasn’t worth anything.


End file.
